,. 


- 


<  f- 

~  -s. 

W  X 

H  C 


2  S 


plantation 


By, 

Paul  Laurence  Duiibar 


Author  of  "  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life," 

"  Poems  of  Cabin  and  Field," 
"Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

DODD,  MEAD   AND    COMPANY 
1903 


,   Copyright,  1903,  by  Dodd,'Mead  and  Company 

Cbpyrigh^  ^£90,  1900,.  1901,  1902,  by 
The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1900,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son 


Published  September,  igoj 


HILL      AND      LEONARD 
NEW    YORK    CITY,    U.  S.  A. 


- 


To 
GEORGE    HORACE    LORIMER 

Out  of  whose  suggestion  these 

stories  were  born,  and  by  whose  kindness 

they  first  saw  the  light. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Aunt  Tempe's  Triumph I 

Aunt   Tempers   Revenge 12 

The   Walls    of  Jericho 27 

How  Brother  Parker  Fell  from  Grace 39 

The    Trousers 50 

The  Last  Fiddling  of  Mordaunt's  Jim 60 

A  Supper  by   Proxy     . 71 

The  Trouble  About  Sophiny 83 

Mr.  Groby's  Slippery  Gift 95 

Ash-cake  Hannah  and  her  Ben 108 

Dizzy-Headed  Dick I  20 

The  Conjuring  Contest 130 

Dandy  Jim's  Conjure  Scare 142 

The    Memory    of  Martha 152 

Who  Stand  for  the  Gods 164 

A  Lady   Slipper 175 

A  Blessed  Deceit 190 

The  Brief  Cure  of  Aunt  Fanny 203 

The  Stanton   Coachman 217 

The  Easter  Wedding 226 

The   Finding  of  Martha 236 

The  Defection  of  Maria  Ann   Gibbs 259 

A  Judgment  of  Paris 273 

Silent    Sam' el 287 

The  Way   of  a  Woman 299 


In    Old    Plantation    Days 


AUNT    TEMPE'S    TRIUMPH.  ' 

It  was  in  the  glow  of  an  April  evening  when 
Aunt  Tempe  came  out  on  the  veranda  to  hold  a 
conference  with  her  master,  Stuart  Mordaunt. 
She  had  evidently  been  turning  some  things  over 
in  her  mind. 

For  months  there  had  been  talk  on  the  planta 
tion,  but  nobody  knew  the  inside  of  what  was 
going  on  quite  so  well  as  she,  for  was  she  not 
Miss  Eliza's  mammy?  Had  she  not  cared  for 
her  every  day  of  her  life,  from  her  birth  until 
now,  and  was  she  not  still  her  own  child,  her 
"Lammy?" 

Indeed,  at  first  she  had  entirely  opposed  the 
marriage  of  her  young  mistress  to  anybody,  and 
had  discouraged  the  attentions  of  young  Stone 
Daniels  when  she  thought  he  was  "spa'kin' 
roun'  ";  but  when  Miss  Eliza  laid  her  head  on 
her  breast  and  blushingly  told  her  all  about  it 
she  surrendered.  And  the  young  mistress  seemed 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

as  happy  over  mammy's  consent  as  she  had  been 
over  her  father's  blessing.  Mammy  knew  all  the 
traditions  of  the  section,  and  the  histories  of  all 
the  families  thereabouts,  and  for  her  to  set  the 
seal  of  approval  upon  young  Daniels  was  the 
final  glory. 

•  -The  preparations  for  the  great  wedding  had 
gone  on  merrily.  There  was  only  a  little  time 
now  before  the  auspicious  day.  Aunt  Tempe, 
chief  authority  and  owner-in-general,  had  been 
as  busily  engaged  as  any  one.  As  the  time  had 
come  nearer  and  nearer,  though,  her  trouble  had 
visibly  increased,  and  it  was  the  culmination  of 
it  which  brought  her  hobbling  out  to  chat  with 
her  master  on  that  April  evening.  It  must  have 
been  Maid  Doshy  that  told  her  about  the  beauti 
ful  ceremony  of  giving  away  the  bride,  and  de 
scribed  to  her  what  a  figure  "OF  Mas'  "  would 
make  on  the  occasion,  but  it  rankled  in  her  mind, 
and  she  had  thoughts  of  her  own  on  the  subject. 

"Look  hyeah,  Mas'  Stua't,"  she  said,  as  she 
settled  down  on  the  veranda  step  at  his  feet;  "I 
done  come  out  hyeah  to  'spute  wid  you." 

"Well,  Aunt  Tempe,"  said  Mordaunt  plac 
idly,  "it  won't  be  the  first  time;  you've  been 
doing  that  for  many  years.  The  fact  is,  half  the 


Aunt  Tempe's   Triumph 

time  I  don't  know  who's  running  this  plantation, 
you  or  I.  You  boss  the  whole  household  round, 
and  "the  quarters"  mind  you  better  than  they  do 
the  preacher.  Plague  take  my  buttons  if  I  don't 
think  they're  afraid  you'll  conjure  them!" 

"ConjuM  WhoconjuM  Meconju'?  Wha's 
de  mattah  wid  you,  Mas'  Stua't?  You  know  I 
ain't  long  haided.  Ef  I  had  'a'  been,  you  know 
I'd  'a'  wo'ked  my  roots  long  'fo'  now  on  oF 
Lishy,  we'en  he  tuk  up  wid  dat  No'ton  ooman." 
This  had  happened  twenty-five  years  before,  but 
Stuart  Mordaunt  knew  that  it  was  still  a  sore 
subject  with  the  old  woman — this  desertion  by 
her  husband — so  he  did  not  pursue  the  unpleas 
ant  matter  any  further. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  l  'spute'  with 
me  about,  Tempe?  Ain't  I  running  the  planta 
tion  right  ?  Or  ain't  your  mistress  behaving  her 
self  as  she  ought  to?" 

"I  do  wish  you'd  let  me  talk;  you  des'  keep 
a-jokin'  an'  a  runnin'  on  so  dat  a  body  cain't  git 
in  a  wo'd  aigeways." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"Now  you  know  dat  Miss  'Liza  gwine  ma'y  ?" 

"Yes,  she  has  told  me  about  it,  though  I  sup 
pose  she  asked  your  consent  first." 

3 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Nemmine  dat,  nemmine  dat,  you  hyeah  me. 
Miss  'Liza  gwine  ma'y." 

"Yes,  unless  young  Daniels  runs  off,  or  sees  a 
girl  he  likes  better." 

"Sees  a  gal  he  lak'  bettah !  Run  off  I  Wha's 
de  mattah  wid  you  ?" 

The  master  laughed  cheerily,  and  the  old 
woman  went  on. 

"Now,  we  all's  gwineter  gin  huh  a  big  wed- 
din',  des'  lak  my  baby  oughter  have." 

"Of  course,  what  else  do  you  expect?  You 
don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  have  her  'jump  over 
the  broom'  with  him,  do  you?" 

"Now,  you  listen  to  me :  we's  gwineter  have 
all  de  doin's  dat  go  'long  wid  a  weddin',  ain't 
we?" 

Stuart  Mordaunt  struck  his  fist  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair  and  said: 

"We're  going  to  have  all  that  the  greatness 
of  the  occasion  demands  when  a  Mordaunt 
marries." 

"Da's  right,  da's  right.  She  gwineter  have 
de  o'ange  wreaf  an'  de  ring?" 

"That's  part  of  it." 

"An*  she  gwineter  be  gin'  erway  in  right 
style?"  asked  Aunt  Tempe  anxiously. 

4 


Aunt  Tempe's  Triumph 

"To  be  sure." 

Aunt  Tempe  turned  her  sharp  black  eyes  on 
her  master  and  shot  forth  her  next  question  with 
sudden  force  and  abruptness. 

"Now,  whut  I  wanter  know,  who  gwineter  gin 
huh  erway?" 

Stuart  Mordaunt  straightened  himself  up  in 
his  chair  with  a  motion  of  sudden  surprise  and 
exclaimed: 

"Why,  Tempe,  what  the — what  do  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean  des'  whut  I  say,  da's  whut  I  mean. 
I  wanter  know  who  gwineter  gin  my  Miss  'Liza 
erway?" 

"Who  should  give  her  away?" 

The  old  woman  folded  her  hands  calmly 
across  her  neckerchief  and  made  answer:  "Da's 
des'  de  questun." 

"Why,  I'm  going  to  give  my  daughter  away, 
of  course." 

"You  gwineter  gin  yo'  darter  erway,  huh,  is 
you?"  Aunt  Tempe  questioned  slowly. 

The  tone  was  so  full  of  contempt  that  her 
master  turned  a  surprised  look  upon  her  face. 
She  got  up,  put  her  hands  behind  her  in  an  atti- 

5 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

tude  of  defiance,  and  stood  there  looking  at  him, 
as  he  sat  viciously  biting  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"You  'lows  to  gin  huh  erway,  does  you?" 

"Why,  Tempe,  what  the — who  should  give 
her  away?" 

"You  'lows  to  gin  huh  erway,  I  say?" 

"Most  assuredly  I  do,"  he  answered  angrily. 

The  old  woman  moved  up  a  step  higher  on  the 
porch  and  asked  in  an  intense  voice : 

"Whut  business  you  got  givin'  my  chile 
erway?  Huccome  you  got  de  right  to  gin  Miss 
'Liza  to  anybody?" 

"Why— why— Tempe !" 

"Who  is  you?"  exclaimed  Tempe.  "Who 
raise  up  dat  chile  ?  Who  nuss  huh  th'oo  de  colic 
w'en  she  cried  all  night,  an'  she  was  so  peakid 
you  didn't  know  w'en  you  gwine  lay  huh  erway? 
Huh?  Who  do  dat?  Who  raise  you  up,  an' 
tek  keer  o'  you,  w'en  yo'  oP  mammy  die,  an'  you 
wa'n't  able  even  to  keep  erway  fom  de  bee-trees  ? 
Huh?  Who  do  dat?  You  gin  huh  erway! 
You  gin  huh  erway !  Da's  my  chile,  Mas'  Stua't 
Mo'de'nt,  an'  ef  anybody  gin  huh  erway  at  de 
weddin',  d'  ain't  nobody  gwine  do  it  but  ol' 
Tempe  huhself.  You  hyeah  me?" 

"But,  Tempe,  Tempe !"  said  the  master,  "that 
6 


Aunt  Tempe's   Triumph 

wouldn't  be  proper.  You  can't  give  your  young 
mistress  away." 

"P'opah  er  whut  not,  I  de  only  one  whut  got 
de  right,  an'  I  see  'bout  dat!" 

Mordaunt  forgot  that  he  was  talking  to  a 
servant,  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"See  about  it!  See  about  it!"  he  cried,  "I'll 
let  you  know  that  I  can  give  my  own  daughter 
away  when  she  marries.  You  must  think  you 
own  this  whole  plantation,  and  all  the  white 
folks  and  niggers  on  it." 

Aunt  Tempe  came  up  on  the  porch  and 
curtsied  to  her  master. 

"Nemmine,  Mas'  Stua't,"  she  said;  "nem- 
mine."  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  her 
voice  was  trembling.  "Hit  all  right,  hit  all 
right.  I  'longs  to  you,  but  Miss  'Liza,  she  my 
chile."  Her  voice  rose  again  in  a  defiant  ring, 
and  lost  its  pathos  as  she  exclaimed,  "I  show  you 
who  got  de  right  to  gin  my  chile  erway !"  And 
shaking  her  turbaned  head,  she  went  back  into 
the  house  mumbling  to  herself. 

"Well!"  said  Stuart  Mordaunt.  "I'll  be 
blessed!"  He  might  have  used  a  stronger  term, 
but  just  then  the  black-coated  figure  of  the  rector 
came  round  the  corner  of  the  veranda. 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"How  are  you,  how  are  you,  sir!"  said  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Davis  jocosely.  uAre  you  the  man 
who  owns  this  plantation?" 

Mordaunt  hurled  his  cigar  down  the  path,  and 
replied  grimly: 

"I  don't  know;  I  used  to  think  so." 

Meanwhile  Aunt  Tempe  had  gone  into  the 
house  to  tell  her  troubles  to  her  young  mistress. 
She  and  her  Miss  Eliza  were  mutually  the  bear 
ers  of  each  other's  burdens  on  all  occasions.  She 
told  her  story,  and  laid  her  case  before  the  bride- 
to-be. 

"Now  you  know,  baby,"  she  said,  uef  anybody 
got  de  right  to  gin  you  erway,  'tain't  nobody  but 


me." 


uYes,  yes,  mammy,"  said  the  young  woman 
consolingly;  uthey  sha'n't  slight  you,  that  they 
sha'n't." 

uNo,  indeed;  I  don't  'tend  to  be  slighted." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  mammy,"  said  Miss 
Eliza;  ueven  if  you  can't  give  me  away,  you'll 
be  where  Doshy  and  Dinah  and  none  of  the  rest 
can  be." 

"Whahdat,  chile?" 

"Why,  before  the  ceremony  I'll  hide  you 
8 


Aunt  Tempos   Triumph 

under  the  portieres  right  back  of  where  we're 
going  to  stand  in  the  drawing-room." 

"An'  I  cain't  gin  you  erway,  baby?"  said  the 
old  woman  sadly. 

"We'll  see  about  that,  mammy;  you  know 
nobody  ever  knows  what's  going  to  happen." 

The  girl  was  comforting  the  old  woman's  dis 
tresses  as  mammy  in  the  years  gone  by  had 
quieted  her  childish  fears.  It  was  a  putting  off 
until  to-morrow  of  the  evils  that  seemed  present 
to-day. 

Aunt  Tempe  went  away  seemingly  satisfied, 
but  she  thought  deeply,  and  later  she  visited  old 
Brother  Parker,  who  used  to  know  a  servant  in  a 
preacher's  family,  and  they  talked  long  and 
earnestly  together  one  whole  evening. 

Doshy  saw  them  as  they  separated,  and  cried 
in  derision: 

"Look  hyeah,  Aunt  Tempe,  whut  you  an'  ol' 
Brothah  Pahkah  codgin'  erbout  so  long?  'Spec' 
fus'  thing  we  knows  we  be  gittin'  slippahs  an' 
wreafs  fu  you,  an'  you'll  be  follerin'  Miss  'Liza's 
'zample!" 

"Huh-uh,  chile,"  Aunt  Tempe  answered,  "I 
ain't  thinkin'  nothin'  'bout  may'in',  case  I's  oP, 
but  la,  chile,  I  oP  in  de  haid,  too !" 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

The  preparations  for  the  wedding  were  com 
pleted,  and  the  time  arrived.  All  the  elite  of 
the  surrounding  country  were  present.  Mammy 
was  allowed  to  put  the  last  touches,  insignificant 
though  they  were,  to  the  bride's  costume.  She 
wept  copiously  over  her  child,  but  with  not  so 
much  absorption  as  not  to  be  alert  when  Miss 
Eliza  took  her  down  and  slipped  her  behind  the 
heavy  portieres. 

The  organ  pealed  its  march;  the  ceremony 
began  and  proceeded.  The  responses  of  the 
groom  were  strong,  and  those  of  the  bride  timid, 
but  decisive  and  clear.  Above  all  rose  the  res 
onant  voice  of  the  rector.  Stuart  Mordaunt  had 
gathered  himself  together  and  straightened  his 
shoulders  and  stepped  forward  at  the  words, 
"Who  giveth  this  woman,"  when  suddenly  the 
portieres  behind  the  bridal  party  were  thrown 
asunder,  and  the  ample  form  of  Aunt  Tempe 
appeared.  The  whole  assemblage  was  thunder 
struck.  The  minister  paused,  Mordaunt  stood 
transfixed;  a  hush  fell  upon  all  of  them,  which 
was  broken  by  the  old  woman's  stentorian  voice 
crying : 

"I  does !  Dat's  who !  I  gins  my  baby  erway !" 

For  an  instant  no  one  spoke ;  some  of  the  older 

10 


Aunt  Tempe's  Triumph 

ladies  wiped  tears  from  their  eyes,  and  Stuart 
Mordaunt  bowed  and  resumed  his  place  beside 
his  daughter.  The  clergyman  took  up  the  cere 
mony  where  he  had  left  off,  and  the  marriage 
was  finished  without  any  further  interruption. 

When  it  was  all  over,  neither  the  father,  the 
mother,  the  proud  groom,  nor  the  blushing  bride 
had  one  word  of  reproach  for  mammy,  for  no 
one  doubted  that  her  giving  away  and  her  bless 
ing  were  as  effectual  and  fervent  as  those  of  the 
nearest  relative  could  have  been. 

And  Aunt  Tempe  chuckled  as  she  went  her 
way.  "I  showed  'em.  I  showed  'em." 


ii 


AUNT  TEMPE'S  REVENGE. 

Laramie  Belle — why  she  was  Laramie  Belle 
no  one  could  ever  make  out — Laramie  Belle  had 
astonished  the  whole  plantation.  She  came  of 
stock  that  was  prone  to  perpetrating  surprises, 
and  she  did  credit  to  her  blood  and  breeding. 
When  she  was  only  two  weeks  old  the  wiseacres 
had  said  that  no  good  could  ever  come  to  so  out 
rageously  a  named  child.  Aunt  Mandy  had 
quite  expressed  the  opinion  of  every  one,  when 
she  said:  "Why,  ef  de  chile  had  been  named  a 
puoh  Bible  name  er  a  puoh  devil  name,  she 
mought  a'  mounted  to  somepV,  but  dat  aih  con 
traption,  Laramie  Belle,  ain't  one  ner  'tothah. 
She  done  doomed  a'ready."  And  here  was  Lar 
amie  Belle  after  eighteen  years  of  a  rather  quiet 
life,  getting  ready  to  fulfill  all  the  adverse 
prophecies. 

There  were,  perhaps,  two  elements  in  the  mat 
ter  that  made  the  Mordaunt  plantation  look 
upon  it  with  less  leniency  even  than  usual.  Of 
course,  it  was  the  unwritten  law  of  the  little  com 
munity  that  alliances  should  not  be  contracted 

12 


Aunt  Tempe's  Revenge 

with  people  off  the  estate.  But  even  they  knew 
that  love  must  go  where  it  will,  and  a  certain  lati 
tude  might  have  been  allowed  the  culprit  had  she 
not  been  guilty  of  another  heresy  that  made  her 
crime  blacker.  Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  at  the 
very  time  that  Tom  Norton  began  bestowing  his 
impudent  attentions  upon  her,  Julius,  the  coach 
man,  had  also  deigned  to  look  at  her  with  favor. 
For  her  to  give  the  preference  to  the  former  was 
an  offence  not  to  be  overlooked  nor  condoned. 
By  so  doing,  she  not  only  lost  a  golden  matri 
monial  opportunity,  but  belittled  the  value  of  her 
own  people. 

There  was  another  feeling  that  entered  into 
the  trouble,  too,  a  vague,  almost  shadowy  dis 
like  to  the  man  upon  whom  Laramie  Belle  had 
placed  her  affections.  Although  only  a  tradition 
to  the  younger  servants,  the  memory  was  still 
vivid  in  the  minds  of  the  older  heads  of  Aunt 
Tempe's  desertion  by  her  husband,  when  he  took 
up  with  "the  Norton  woman."  They  remem 
bered  how  Tempe,  then  a  spirited,  lively  woman, 
had  mourned  and  refused  to  be  comforted,  and 
they  could  not  forget  the  bravery  with  which  she 
had  consented  that  Stuart  Mordaunt  should 
transfer  her  husband  to  Master  Norton,  in  order 

13 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

that  he  might  be  with  his  new  wife.  She  had 
mourned  for  weeks,  yes,  for  months,  and  no  one 
else  had  ever  come  into  her  heart.  Was  it  not 
enough  that  this  suffering  had  come  to  a  Mor- 
daunt  through  this  Norton  wench,  without  this 
man,  this  son  of  her  and  her  stolen  mate,  taking 
away  one  of  the  plantation's  buds  of  promise  ? 

They  talked  much  to  Laramie  Belle,  but  she 
was  not  a  girl  of  many  words,  and  only  held  her 
head  down  and  made  imaginary  lines  with  her 
foot  as  she  listened.  She  would  not  talk  to  them 
about  it,  but  neither  would  she  give  up  Tom  and 
encourage  Julius. 

There  were  those  who  believed  that  she  was 
encouraged  in  her  stubborness  by  her  mother, 
that  mother  who  had  closed  her  ears  to  all  advice, 
remonstrance,  and  prophecy  when  warned  as  to 
the  naming  of  her  baby.  They  were  right,  too, 
for  Lucy  did  uphold  her  daughter's  quiet  inde 
pendence.  Indeed,  there  was  a  streak  of  strange 
ness  in  both  of  them  that,  in  spite  of  the  younger 
woman's  popularity,  placed  them,  as  it  were,  in  a 
position  apart. 

"You  right,  honey,"  said  her  mother  to  her, 
"ef  you  loves  Tom  No'ton  you  tek  up  wid  him ; 
don'  keer  whut  de  res'  says.  Yo'  got  to  live  wid 

14 


Aunt  Tempos  Revenge 

him,  yo'  got  to  do  his  cookin'  an'  washin'  an' 
i'nin',  an'  all  you  got  to  do  is  to  git  Mas'  Stua't 
to  say  yes  to  you." 

No  one  argued  with  Lucy,  whatever  they 
might  say  to  her  daughter.  About  the  older 
woman  there  was  a  spirit  fierce  and  free  that 
would  not  be  gainsaid.  There  was  something  of 
the  wild  nerve  of  African  forests  about  her  that 
had  not  yet  been  driven  out  by  the  hard  hand  of 
slavery,  nor  yet  smoothed  down  by  the  velvet 
glove  of  irresponsibility.  The  essence  of  this, 
albeit  subdued,  refined,  diluted,  perhaps,  was  in 
her  daughter,  and  that  was  why  she  kept  her  way 
in  spite  of  all  opposition. 

As  for  Tom  Norton,  opposition  only  made 
him  more  determined,  and  nothing  did  him  more 
good  than  to  laugh  in  the  face  of  Julius  as  he 
was  leaving  the  Mordaunt  place  after  a  pleasant 
visit  with  Laramie. 

As  promiscuous  visiting  between  the  planta 
tions  was  forbidden,  Tom  had  had  the  good 
sense  to  secure  both  his  master's  and  Stuart  Mor- 
daunc's  consent,  the  latter's  reluctantly  given  to 
these  excursions.  On  the  principle,  however,  that 
he  who  is  given  much  may  with  safety  take  more, 
he  often  overstepped  the  bound  and  went  to  see 

15 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

his  sweetheart  when  the  permission  was  wanting. 
Julius  found  this  out  and  determined  to  admin 
ister  a  severe  lesson  to  his  rival  on  the  first  occa 
sion  that  he  found  him  within  his  domain  with 
out  his  master's  permission.  So  thinking,  he  laid 
his  plans  carefully,  the  first  of  them  being  to  gain 
a  friend  and  informant  on  the  Norton  place. 
This  he  succeeded  in  doing,  and  then,  after  con 
fiding  in  a  couple  of  trusted  friends,  he  lay  in 
wait  for  his  unfortunate  rival.  He  had  a  stout 
hickory  stick  in  his  hand,  and  he  and  his  friends 
were  stationed  at  short  intervals  of  space  along 
the  road  which  Tom  must  cross  to  visit  Laramie 
Belle. 

It  was  a  moonlit  night.  The  watchers  by  the 
roadside  heard  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  as  their 
victim  approached.  But,  with  ghoulish  satisfac 
tion,  they  let  him  pass  on.  It  was  not  now  that 
they  wanted  him,  but  when  he  came  back.  Then 
they  would  have  the  fun  of  whipping  him  to  his 
very  gate,  and  he  would  not  dare  to  tell.  They 
possessed  their  souls  in  patience,  and  waited, 
chuckling  ever  and  anon  at  the  prospect  as  the 
first  hour  passed.  They  yawned  more  and 
chuckled  less  through  the  second  hour.  During 
the  third,  the  yawns  held  exclusive  sway.  He 

16 


Aunt  Tempe's  Revenge 

was  staying  particularly  late  that  night.  It  was 
in  the  gray  dawn  that,  unsatisfied,  sleepy,  and 
angry,  they  took  their  way  home.  Their  heads 
seemed  scarcely  to  have  touched  the  pillows  when 
the  horns  and  bells  sounded  the  rising  hour.  Oh, 
misery !  They  had  missed  Tom,  too. 

Julius  could  not  understand  it.  It  was  very 
simple,  though.  Man  proposes,  but  woman  ex 
poses,  and  he  had  not  learned  to  beware  of  a 
friend  who  had  a  wife.  So,  his  secret  had  leaked 
out.  Laramie  Belle  had  had  a  chance  to  warn 
Tom,  and,  going  by  another  road,  he  had  been 
in  bed  and  snoring  when  his  watchers  were  wear 
ily  waiting  for  him  by  the  roadside. 

Even  for  the  coachman's  friends,  the  story  was 
too  good  to  keep,  and  before  long  big  house  and 
quarters  were  laughing  to  their  hearts'  content. 

The  unwelcome  suitor  was  doubly  unfortu 
nate,  however,  for  his  action  precipitated  the 
result  which  he  was  so  anxious  to  prevent.  See 
ing  himself  in  danger  of  being  the  constant  vic 
tim  of  intrigue  and  molestation,  Tom  Norton 
determined  to  press  his  suit  and  bring  matters  to 
a  close.  With  this  end  in  view  he  sought  his 
master  and  laid  the  case  before  him,  begging  for 
his  intercession.  Norton,  the  master,  promised 

17 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

to  visit  Stuart  Mordaunt  and  talk  the  matter 
over  with  him. 

He  did  so.  He  laid  the  case  before  Mor 
daunt  plainly  and  clearly.  A  negro  on  his  plan 
tation  was  in  love  with  one  of  his  host's  maids. 
What  was  to  be  done  about  it  ? 

"Well,  it's  this  way,  Norton,"  said  Mordaunt 
frankly.  "You  know  I  never  have  countenanced 
this  mating  of  servants  off  the  plantation.  It's 
only  happened  once,  and  you  know  how  that 


was." 


"I  know,  but,  Mr.  Mordaunt,  Tom  likes  that 
wench,  and  if  he  don't  get  her  it'll  make  a  bad 
darky  out  of  him,  that's  all ;  and  he'll  be  a  trouble 
to  your  plantation  as  well  as  to  mine." 

"Oh,  I  can  answer  as  to  mine." 

"Perhaps,  but  there's  no  telling  what  influence 
he  might  have  over  your  people,  and  that's  worth 
looking  into." 

"You're  on  the  wrong  road  to  accomplish  your 
end  with  me,  Norton." 

"But  you  don't  understand;  I'm  not  talking 
for  myself,  but  for  the  happiness  of  a  boy  that  I 
like." 

"You  know  how  I  handled  a  similar  case." 
18 


Aunt  Tempers  Revenge 

"Yes;  but  I'm  a  poorer  man  than  you,  and  I — 
well,  I  can't  afford  to  be  generous." 

Mordaunt  laughed  coldly.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"I  don't  like  the  stock  of  that  boy  Tom.  You 
know  how  his  father  treated  Tempe,  and — oh, 
well,  Norton,  see  me  again,  I'm  not  in  the  mood 
to  discuss  this  matter  now,"  and  he  rose  to  dis 
miss  his  visitor. 

"I'll  sell  Tom  cheap,"  said  Norton. 

"In  spite  of  your  deep  feeling  for  him?" 

"My  deep  feeling  for  him  prompts  me  to  help 
him  to  happiness." 

"Very  considerate  of  you,  Norton,  but  I'm  not 
buying  or  selling  darkies.  Good-day." 

Norton  ground  his  teeth  as  he  walked  away. 
"That  proud  fool  despises  me,"  he  murmured 
angrily,  "but  either  he  shall  buy  Tom  or  that 
nigger  shall  make  him  more  than  his  money's 
worth  of  trouble." 

Stuart  Mordaunt  went  away  from  the  inter 
view  with  his  neighbor  with  a  sneer  on  his  lips. 
He  despised  Aldberry  Norton,  not  because  he 
was  a  poorer  man,  but  because  he  was  a  man 
with  no  principle.  Once  an  overseer,  now  a 
small  owner,  he  brought  the  manners  of  the 
lower  position  to  the  higher  one. 

19 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"I'd  buy  Tom,"  he  said  to  himself,  "just  to 
satisfy  Laramie  Belle,  if  it  wasn't  against  my 
principle." 

When  the  plantation,  through  some  mysteri 
ous  intelligence,  heard  how  Tom's  suit  fared,  it 
was  exultant.  After  all,  the  flower  of  their  girls 
was  not  to  go  away  to  mate  with  an  inferior. 
They  ceased  to  laugh  at  Julius  behind  his  back. 
But  there  is  no  accounting  for  the  ways  of 
women,  and  at  this  time  Laramie  Belle  ceased 
speaking  to  him — so,  setting  one  off  against  the 
other,  the  poor  coachman  had  little  to  pride  him 
self  upon. 

The  girl  now  had  fewer  words  than  ever.  Her 
smiles,  too,  were  fewer,  and  she  was  often  in 
tears.  Seeing  her  thus,  the  fierceness  in  her 
mother's  face  and  manner  increased  until  it  grew 
to  be  a  settled  fact  that  one  who  cared  for  his 
life  was  not  to  bother  Laramie  Belle  nor  Lucy. 

During  all  the  trouble,  Aunt  Tempe  had  list 
ened  and  looked  on,  unmoved.  Every  one  had 
expected  her  to  take  a  very  decided  part  against 
the  welcome  suitor,  the  son  of  her  old  rival  and 
her  defaulting  husband;  but  she  had  not  done  so. 
She  had  stood  aloof  until  this  crisis  came.  Even 
now,  she  was  strangely  subdued.  Only  she  cast 

20 


Aunt  Tempe's  Revenge 

inquiring  glances  at  Laramie  Belle's  long,  tear- 
saddened  face  whenever  she  passed  her.  Day 
by  day  she  saw  how  the  girl  faded,  and  then 
came  the  wrath  of  the  plantation  upon  her. 
When  they  saw  that  she  would  not  yield,  they 
cast  her  off.  They  would  not  associate  with  her, 
nor  speak  to  her.  She  was  none  of  theirs.  Let 
her  find  her  friends  over  at  Norton's,  they  said. 
They  laughed  at  her  and  tossed  their  heads  in 
her  face,  and  she  went  her  way  silent  but  weep 
ing.  Lucy's  eyes  grew  fierce.  Something 
strange,  foreign,  even  wild  within  her  seemed  to 
rear  itself  and  call  for  release.  But  she  held 
herself  as  if  saying,  "A  little  while  yet." 

The  day  came,  however,  when  Aunt  Tempe 
could  stand  Laramie  Belle's  sad  face  no  longer. 
It  may  have  been  the  influence  of  Parker's  words 
as  he  told  of  the  command  to  do  good  to  "dem 
dat  spitefully  use  you,"  or  it  may  have  been  the 
strong  promptings  of  her  own  good  heart  that 
drove  Tempe  to  seek  her  master  out. 

"Well,  Tempe,"  said  Mordaunt,  as  he  saw 
that  she  had  settled  herself  for  a  talk  with  him, 
"what  now?" 

"It's  des'  anothah  one  o'  rny  'sputes,"  said 

21 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Tempe,  with  an  embarrassment  entirely  new  to 
her. 

"Well,  what's  coming  now?" 

"Mas'  Stua't,  I's  an'  ol'  fool,  dat's  what  I  is." 

"Ah,  Tempe,  have  you  found  that  out?  Then 
you  begin  to  be  wise.  It's  wonderful  how  as  you 
and  I  get  old  we  both  arrive  at  the  same  con 
clusions." 

"I  aint  jokin',  Mas'  Stua't.  I's  mighty 
anxious.  I  been  thinkin'  'bout  Tawm  an'  La'- 
amie  Belle." 

"Now,  Tempe!" 

"HoF  on,  Mas'.  Yo'  know  de  reason  I  got 
some  right  to  think  'bout  dem  two.  Mas'  Stua't, 
my  ol'  man  didn'  do  me  right  to  leave  me  an'  tek 
up  wid  anothah  'ooman." 

"He  was  a  hound." 

"Look-a-hyeah,  whut  you  talkin'  'bout?  You 
heish.  I  was  a  gwine  'long  to  say  dat  my  man 
didn'  treat  me  right,  but  sence  it's  done,  it's  done, 
an'  de  only  way  to  do  is  to  mek  de  bes'  of  it." 

"You've  been  doing  that  for  a  good  many 
years." 

"Yes,  but  it  wasn't  wid  my  willin'  hea't. 
Brothah  Pahkah  say  'dough  dat  we  mus'  do  good 
to  dem  what  spitefully  use  us." 

22 


Aunt  Tempe's  Revenge 

"What  are  you  driving  at,  Tempe?" 

"Mas'  Stua't,  sence  Tawm  No'ton,  he  my  ol' 
man's  boy,  don't  you  reckon  I's  some  kin'  of  a 
step-mammy  to  him?" 

Stuart  Mordaunt  could  not  repress  a  chuckle 
as  he  answered,  "Well,  I  can't  just  figure  out  any 
such  kinship." 

"I  don'  keer  whut  yo'  figgers  out.  Hit's  got 
to  be  so  'cause  I  feels  it." 

"It  must  be  so,  then." 

"Well,  de  plantation  done  cas'  La'amie  Belle 
out  'cause  she  love  Tawm,  an'  she  cryin'  huh 
eyes  out.  Tawm,  he  feel  moughty  bad  'bout  it." 

"Well?" 

"Mas'  Stua't,  let  'em  ma'y." 

"Tempe,  you  know  I  object  to  the  servants 
marrying  off  the  plantation." 

"I  know,  but—" 

"And  you  know  that  I  can't  buy  Tom." 

"Won't  you,  des'  dis  time?" 

"No,  I  won't;  I'm  not  a  nigger  trader,  and  I 
won't  have  any  one  making  me  one.  You  let 
me  alone,  Tempe,  and  don't  concern  yourself  in 
this  business." 

"Dey  des  two  po'  chillen,  Mas'  Stua't." 

"I  don't  care  if  they  are.  I  won't  have  any- 
23 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

thing  to  do  with  it,  I  tell  you.  I  won't  have  my 
people  marrying  with  Norton's,  and  if  he  can't 
make  a  fair  exchange  for  the  man  I  gave  him, 
why,  Tom  and  Laramie  Belle  will  have  to  give 
each  other  up,  that's  all." 

Aunt  Tempe  said  no  more,  but  went  tearfully 
away,  but  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  saw 
her  master  pacing  up  and  down  long  after  she 
had  left  him,  and  she  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  he  was  uneasy. 

"Confound  Tempe,"  Mordaunt  was  saying. 
"Why  can't  she  let  me  alone  ?  Just  as  I  quiet  my 
conscience,  here  she  comes  and  knocks  everything 
into  a  cocked  hat.  I  won't  buy  Tom.  I  won't, 
that's  all  there  is  about  it.  Her  stepson,  in 
deed!"  He  tried  to  laugh,  but  it  ended  lamely. 
"Confound  Tempe,"  he  repeated. 

He  was  troubled  for  two  or  three  days,  and 
then  with  a  very  sheepish  expression  he  went  to 
Tempe's  cabin. 

"Tempe,"  he  said,  "you've  served  me  long 
and  faithfully,  and  I've  been  thinking  about 
making  you  a  present  for  some  time." 

"La,  Mas'  Stua't,  wha's  de  mattah  wid  you?" 

"You  hush  up.  Here's  some  money,  you  can 
24 


Aunt  Tempos  Revenge 

do  with  it  as  you  please,"  and  he  thrust  a  roll  of 
bills  into  her  hand. 

"W'y,  Mas'  Stua't  Mo'da'nt,  is  you  clean 
loony?  What  is  I  gwine  to  do  wid  all  dis 
money?" 

"Throw  it  in  the  fire,  confound  you,  if  you 
haven't  got  sense  enough  to  know  what  use  to 
put  it  to!"  Stuart  Mordaunt  shouted,  as  he 
turned  away.  Then  the  light  dawned  on  Aunt 
Tempe,  and  she  sank  to  her  knees  with  a  prayer 
of  thanks. 

It  took  but  a  short  time  for  her  to  have  a  less 
scrupulous  man  buy  Tom  for  her,  and  then  with 
a  solemnity  as  great  as  his  own,  she  presented 
him  to  her  master,  who  received  him,  as  he  said, 
in  the  spirit  in  which  he  was  given. 

Lucy  and  Laramie  Belle  were  present  at  the 
ceremony.  The  fierce  light  had  died  out  of 
Lucy's  eyes,  and  Laramie's  face  was  aglow. 
When  it  was  all  over,  Julius  shook  hands  with 
Tom  as  an  acknowledgment  of  defeat,  and  that 
gave  the  cue  to  the  rest  of  the  plantation,  who 
forgot  at  once  all  its  animosities  against  the  new 
fellow-servant.  But  there  were  some  things 
which  the  author  of  all  this  good  could  not  for 
get,  and  on  the  night  of  the  wedding,  when  the 

25 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

others  rejoiced,  Aunt  Tempe  wept  and  mur 
mured:  "He  might  V  been  mine,  he  might  'a' 
been  mine." 


26 


THE  WALLS  OF  JERICHO. 

Parker  was  sitting  alone  under  the  shade  of  a 
locust  tree  at  the  edge  of  a  field.  His  head  was 
bent  and  he  was  deep  in  thought.  Every  now  and 
then  there  floated  to  him  the  sound  of  vociferous 
singing,  and  occasionally  above  the  music  rose 
the  cry  of  some  shouting  brother  or  sister.  But 
he  remained  in  his  attitude  of  meditation  as  if  the 
singing  and  the  cries  meant  nothing  to  him. 

They  did,  however,  mean  much,  and,  despite 
his  outward  impassiveness,  his  heart  was  in  a 
tumult  of  wounded  pride  and  resentment.  He 
had  always  been  so  faithful  to  his  flock,  constant 
in  attendance  and  careful  of  their  welfare.  Now 
it  was  very  hard,  at  the  first  call  of  the  stranger 
to  have  them  leave  their  old  pastor  and  crowd  to 
the  new  exhorter. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  before  that  a  free  negro 
had  got  permission  to  hold  meetings  in  the  wood 
adjoining  the  Mordaunt  estate.  He  had  invited 
the  negroes  of  the  surrounding  plantations  to 
come  and  bring  their  baskets  with  them  that  they 
might  serve  the  body  while  they  saved  the  soul. 
By  ones  and  twos  Parker  had  seen  his  congrega- 

27 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

tion  drop  away  from  him  until  now,  in  the  cabin 
meeting  house  where  he  held  forth,  only  a  few 
retainers,  such  as  Mandy  and  Dinah  and  some  of 
the  older  ones  on  the  plantation,  were  present  to 
hear  him.  It  grieved  his  heart,  for  he  had  been 
with  his  flock  in  sickness  and  in  distress,  in  sor 
row  and  in  trouble,  but  now,  at  the  first  approach 
of  the  rival  they  could  and  did  desert  him.  He 
felt  it  the  more  keenly  because  he  knew  just  how 
powerful  this  man  Johnson  was.  He  was  loud- 
voiced  and  theatrical,  and  the  fact  that  he  invited 
all  to  bring  their  baskets  gave  his  scheme  added 
influence;  for  his  congregations  flocked  to  the 
meetings  as  to  a  holy  picnic.  It  was  seldom  that 
they  were  thus  able  to  satisfy  both  the  spiritual 
and  material  longings  at  the  same  time. 

Parker  had  gone  once  to  the  meeting  and  had 
hung  unobserved  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd;  then 
he  saw  by  what  power  the  preacher  held  the  peo 
ple.  Every  night,  at  the  very  height  of  the  serv 
ice,  he  would  command  the  baskets  to  be  opened 
and  the  people,  following  the  example  of  the 
children  of  Israel,  to  march,  munching  their 
food,  round  and  round  the  inclosure,  as  their 
Biblical  archetypes  had  marched  around  the 
walls  of  Jericho.  Parker  looked  on  and  smiled 


The  Walls  of  Jericho 

grimly.  He  knew,  and  the  sensational  revivalist 
knew,  that  there  were  no  walls  there  to  tumble 
down,  and  that  the  spiritual  significance  of  the 
performance  was  entirely  lost  upon  the  people. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  Mordaunt  planta 
tion  exhorter,  he  was  at  least  no  hypocrite,  and 
he  saw  clearly  that  his  rival  gave  to  the  emo 
tional  negroes  a  breathing  chance  and  opportun 
ity  to  eat  and  a  way  to  indulge  their  dancing  pro 
clivities  by  marching  trippingly  to  a  spirited  tune. 

He  went  away  in  disgust  and  anger,  but 
thoughts  deeper  than  either  burned  within  him. 
He  was  thinking  some  such  thoughts  now  as  he 
sat  there  on  the  edge  of  the  field  listening  to  the 
noise  of  the  basket  meeting.  It  was  unfortunate 
for  his  peace  of  mind  that  while  he  sat  there  ab 
sorbed  in  resentful  musings  two  of  the  young 
men  of  his  master's  household  should  come 
along.  They  did  not  know  how  Parker  felt 
about  the  matter,  or  they  never  would  have  al 
lowed  themselves  to  tease  him  on  the  score  of  his 
people's  defection. 

"Well,  Parker,"  said  Ralph,  "seems  mighty 
strange  to  me  that  you  are  not  down  there  in  the 
woods  at  the  meeting." 

The  old  man  was  silent. 
29 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"I  am  rather  surprised  at  Parker  myself,"  said 
Tom  Mordaunt ;  "knowing  how  he  enjoys  a  good 
sermon  I  expected  him  to  be  over  there.  They 
do  say  that  man  Johnson  is  a  mighty  preacher." 

Still  Parker  was  silent. 

"Most  of  your  congregation  are  over  there," 
Ralph  resumed.  Then  the  old  exhorter,  stung 
into  reply,  raised  his  head  and  said  quietly : 

"Dat  ain't  nuffin'  strange,  Mas'  Ralph.  I 
been  preachin'  de  gospel  on  yo'  father's  planta 
tion,  night  aftah  night,  nigh  on  to  twenty-five 
years,  an'  spite  o'  dat,  mos'  o'  my  congregation 
is  in  hell." 

"That  doesn't  speak  very  well  for  your  preach 
ing,"  said  Ralph,  and  the  two  young  fellows 
laughed  heartily. 

"Come,  Parker,  come,  don't  be  jealous;  come 
on  over  to  the  meeting  with  us,  and  let  us  see 
what  it  is  that  Johnson  has  that  you  haven't. 
You  know  any  man  can  get  a  congregation  about 
him,  but  it  takes  some  particular  power  to  hold 
them  after  they  are  caught." 

Parker  rose  slowly  from  the  ground  and  re 
luctantly  joined  his  two  young  masters  as  they 
made  their  way  toward  the  woods.  The  service 
was  in  full  swing.  At  a  long  black  log,  far  to 

30 


The  Walls  of  Jericho 

the  front,  there  knelt  a  line  of  mourners  wailing 
and  praying,  while  the  preacher  stood  above 
them  waving  his  hands  and  calling  on  them  to 
believe  and  be  saved.  Every  now  and  then  some 
one  voluntarily  broke  into  a  song,  either  a  stir 
ring,  marching  spiritual  or  some  soft  crooning 
melody  that  took  strange  hold  upon  the  hearts  of 
even  the  most  skeptical  listeners.  As  they  ap 
proached  and  joined  the  crowd  some  one  had  just 
swung  into  the  undulating  lilt  of 

"Some  one  buried  in  de  graveyard, 

Some  one  buried  in  de  sea, 
All  come  togethah  in  de  mo'nin', 

Go  soun'  de  Jubilee." 

Just  the  word  "Jubilee"  was  enough  to  start 
the  whole  throng  into  agitated  life,  and  they 
moaned  and  shouted  and  wailed  until  the  forest 
became  a  pandemonium. 

Johnson,  the  preacher,  saw  Parker  approach 
with  the  two  young  men  and  a  sudden  spirit  of 
conquest  took  possession  of  him.  He  felt  that  he 
owed  it  to  himself  to  crystallize  his  triumph  over 
the  elder  exhorter.  So,  with  a  glance  that  begged 
for  approbation,  he  called  aloud : 

"Open  de  baskets!  Rise  up,  fu'  de  Jericho 
31 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

walls  o'  sin  is  a-stan'in'.  You  'member  dey 
ma'ched  roun'  seven  times,  an'  at  de  sevent'  time 
de  walls  a-begun  to  shake  an'  shiver;  de  founda 
tions  a-begun  to  trimble ;  de  chillen  a-hyeahed  de 
rum'lin'  lak  a  thundah  fom  on  high,  an'  putty 
soon  down  come  de  walls  a-fallin'  an'  a-crum'lin' ! 
Oh,  brothahs  an'  sistahs,  let  us  a-ma'ch  erroun' 
de  walls  o'  Jericho  to-night  seven  times,  an'  a- 
eatin'  o'  de  food  dat  de  Lawd  has  pervided  us 
wid.  Dey  ain't  no  walls  o'  brick  an'  stone 
a-stan'in'  hyeah  to-night,  but  by  de  eye  o'  Chris 
tian  faif  I  see  a  great  big  wall  o'  sin  a-stan'in' 
strong  an'  thick  hyeah  in  ouah  midst.  Is  we 
gwine  to  let  it  stan'  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  moaned  the  people. 

"Is  we  gwine  to  ma'ch  erroun'  dat  wall  de 
same  ez  Joshuay  an'  his  ban'  did  in  de  days  of 
oP,  ontwell  we  hyeah  de  cracklin'  an'  de  rum'lin', 
de  breakin'  an'  de  taihin',  de  onsettlin'  of  de 
foundations  an'  de  fallin'  of  de  stones  an' 
mo'tah?"  Then  raising  his  voice  he  broke  into 
the  song: 

"Den  we'll  ma'ch,  ma'ch  down,  ma'ch,  ma'ch 

down, 

Oh,  chillen,  ma'ch  down, 
In  de  day  o'  Jubilee." 
32 


The  Walls  of  Jericho 

The  congregation  joined  him  in  the  ringing 
chorus,  and  springing  to  their  feet  began  march 
ing  around  and  around  the  inclosure,  chewing 
vigorously  in  the  breathing  spaces  of  the  hymn. 

The  two  young  men,  who  were  too  used  to 
such  sights  to  be  provoked  to  laughter,  nudged 
each  other  and  bent  their  looks  upon  Parker,  who 
stood  with  bowed  head,  refusing  to  join  in  the 
performance,  and  sighed  audibly. 

After  the  march  Tom  and  Ralph  started  for 
home,  and  Parker  went  with  them. 

"He's  very  effective,  don't  you  think  so, 
Tom?"  said  Ralph. 

"Immensely  so,"  was  the  reply.  "I  don't 
know  that  I  have  ever  seen  such  a  moving  spec 
tacle." 

"The  people  seem  greatly  taken  up  with  him." 

"Personal  magnetism,  that's  what  it  is.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Parker?" 

"Hum,"  said  Parker. 

"It's  a  wonderful  idea  of  his,  that  marching 
around  the  walls  of  sin." 

"So  original,  too.  It's  a  wonder  you  never 
thought  of  a  thing  like  that,  Parker.  I  believe 
it  would  have  held  your  people  to  you  in  the  face 
of  everything.  They  do  love  to  eat  and  march." 

33 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Well,"  said  Parker,  "y°u  all  may  think  what 
you  please,  but  I  ain't  nevah  made  no  business  of 
mekin'  a  play  show  outen  de  Bible.  Dem  folks 
don't  know  what  dey're  doin'.  Why,  ef  dem 
niggahs  hyeahed  anything  commence  to  fall 
they'd  taih  dat  place  up  gittin'  erway  f'om  daih. 
It's  a  wondah  de  Lawd  don'  sen'  a  jedgmen*  on 
'em  fu'  tu'nin'  His  wo'd  into  mockery." 

The  two  young  men  bit  their  lips  and  a  know 
ing  glance  flashed  between  them.  The  same  idea 
had  leaped  into  both  of  their  minds  at  once. 
They  said  no  word  to  Parker,  however,  save  at 
parting,  and  then  they  only  begged  that  he  would 
go  again  the  next  night  of  the  meeting. 

"You  must,  Parker,"  said  Ralph.  "You  must 
represent  the  spiritual  interest  of  the  plantation. 
If  you  don't,  that  man  Johnson  will  think  we 
are  heathen  or  that  our  exhorter  is  afraid  of 
him." 

At  the  name  of  fear  the  old  preacher  bridled 
and  said  with  angry  dignity  : 

"Nemmine,  nemmine;  he  shan't  nevah  think 
dat.  I'll  be  daih." 

Parker  went  alone  to  his  cabin,  sore  at  heart; 
the  young  men,  a  little  regretful  that  they  had 
stung  him  a  bit  too  far,  went  up  to  the  big  house, 

34 


The  Walls  of  Jericho 

their  heads  close  together,  and  in  the  darkness 
and  stillness  there  came  to  them  the  hymns  of  the 
people. 

On  the  next  night  Parker  went  early  to  the 
meeting-place  and,  braced  by  the  spirit  of  his 
defiance,  took  a  conspicuous  front  seat.  His  face 
gave  no  sign,  though  his  heart  throbbed  angrily 
as  he  saw  the  best  and  most  trusted  of  his  flock 
come  in  with  intent  faces  and  seat  themselves 
anxiously  to  await  the  advent  of  an  alien.  Why 
had  those  rascally  boys  compelled  him  for  his 
own  dignity's  sake  to  come  there?  Why  had 
they  forced  him  to  be  a  living  witness  of  his  own 
degradation  and  of  his  own  people's  ingratitude? 

But  Parker  was  a  diplomat,  and  when  the 
hymns  began  he  joined  his  voice  with  the  voices 
of  the  rest. 

Something,  though,  tugged  at  Parker's  breast, 
a  vague  hoped-for  something;  he  knew  not  what 
— the  promise  of  relief  from  the  tension  of  his 
jealousy,  the  harbinger  of  revenge.  It  was  in 
the  air.  Everything  was  tense  as  if  awaiting  the 
moment  of  catastrophe.  He  found  himself  joy 
ous,  and  when  Johnson  arose  on  the  wings  of  his 
eloquence  it  was  Parker's  loud  "Amen"  which 
set  fire  to  all  the  throng.  Then,  when  the  meet- 

35 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

ing  was  going  well,  when  the  spiritual  fire  had 
been  thoroughly  kindled  and  had  gone  from 
crackling  to  roaring;  when  the  hymns  were  loud 
est  and  the  hand-clapping  strongest,  the  revivalist 
called  upon  them  to  rise  and  march  around  the 
walls  of  Jericho.  Parker  rose  with  the  rest,  and, 
though  he  had  no  basket,  he  levied  on  the  store 
of  a  solicitous  sister  and  marched  with  them, 
singing,  singing,  but  waiting,  waiting  for  he  knew 
not  what. 

It  was  the  fifth  time  around  and  yet  nothing 
had  happened.  Then  the  sixth,  and  a  rumbling 
sound  was  heard  near  at  hand.  A  tree  crashed 
down  on  one  side.  White  eyes  were  rolled  in  the 
direction  of  the  noise  and  the  burden  of  the  hymn 
was  left  to  the  few  faithful.  Half  way  around 
and  the  bellow  of  a  horn  broke  upon  the  startled 
people's  ears,  and  the  hymn  sank  lower  and 
lower.  The  preacher's  face  was  ashen,  but  he 
attempted  to  inspire  the  people,  until  on  the 
seventh  turn  such  a  rumbling  and  such  a  clatter 
ing,  such  a  tumbling  of  rocks,  such  a  falling  of 
trees  as  was  never  heard  before  gave  horror  to 
the  night.  The  people  paused  for  one  moment 
and  then  the  remains  of  the  bread  and  meat  were 
cast  to  the  winds,  baskets  were  thrown  away,  and 

36 


STAN'  STILL,  STAN'  STILL — AN'  SEE  DK  SALVATION  '  ' 


The  Walls  of  Jericho 

the  congregation,  thoroughly  maddened  with 
fear,  made  one  rush  for  the  road  and  the  quar 
ters.  Ahead  of  them  all,  his  long  coat-tails  flying 
and  his  legs  making  not  steps  but  leaps,  was  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Johnson.  He  had  no  word  of  courage 
or  hope  to  offer  the  frightened  flock  behind  him. 
Only  Parker,  with  some  perception  of  the  situa 
tion,  stood  his  ground.  He  had  leaped  upon  a 
log  and  was  crying  aloud : 

"Stan'  still,  stan'  still,  I  say,  an'  see  de  salva 
tion,"  but  he  got  only  frightened,  backward 
glances  as  the  place  was  cleared. 

When  they  were  all  gone,  he  got  down  off  the 
log  and  went  to  where  several  of  the  trees  had 
fallen.  He  saw  that  they  had  been  cut  nearly 
through  during  the  day  on  the  side  away  from 
the  clearing,  and  ropes  were  still  along  the  upper 
parts  of  their  trunks.  Then  he  chuckled  softly 
to  himself.  As  he  stood  there  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  fat-pine  torches  that  were  burning  themselves 
out,  two  stealthy  figures  made  their  way  out  of 
the  surrounding  gloom  into  the  open  space.  Tom 
and  Ralph  were  holding  their  sides,  and  Parker, 
with  a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  each  of  the  boys, 
laughed  unrighteously. 

37 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Well,  he  hyeahed  de  rum'lin'  an'  crum'lin'," 
he  said,  and  Ralph  gasped. 

"You're  the  only  one  who  stood  your  ground, 
Parker,"  said  Tom. 

"How  erbout  de  walls  o'  Jericho  now?"  was 
all  Parker  could  say  as  he  doubled  up. 

When  the  people  came  back  to  their  senses 
they  began  to  realize  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Johnson 
had  not  the  qualities  of  a  leader.  Then  they  re 
called  how  Parker  had  stood  still  in  spite  of  the 
noise  and  called  them  to  wait  and  see  the  salva 
tion,  and  so,  with  a  rush  of  emotional  feeling, 
they  went  back  to  their  old  allegiance.  Parker's 
meeting-house  again  was  filled,  and  for  lack  of 
worshipers  Mr.  Johnson  held  no  more  meetings 
and  marched  no  more  around  the  walls  of 
Jericho. 


HOW  BROTHER  PARKER  FELL  FROM 
GRACE. 

It  all  happened  so  long  ago  that  it  has  almost 
been  forgotten  upon  the  plantation,  and  few  save 
the  older  heads  know  anything  about  it  save  from 
hearsay.  It  was  in  Parker's  younger  days,  but 
the  tale  was  told  on  him  for  a  long  time,  until 
he  was  so  old  that  every  little  disparagement  cut 
him  like  a  knife.  Then  the  young  scapegraces 
who  had  the  story  only  from  their  mothers'  lips 
spared  his  dotage.  Even  to  young  eyes,  the  re 
spect  which  hedges  about  the  form  of  eighty  ob 
scures  many  of  the  imperfections  that  are  ap 
parent  at  twenty-eight,  and  Parker  was  nearing 
eighty. 

The  truth  of  it  is  that  Parker,  armed  with  the 
authority  which  his  master  thought  the  due  of 
the  plantation  exhorter,  was  wont  to  use  his 
power  with  rather  too  free  a  rein.  He  was  so 
earnest  for  the  spiritual  welfare  of  his  fellow- 
servants  that  his  watchful  ministrations  became 
a  nuisance  and  a  bore. 

Even  Aunt  Doshy,  who  was  famous  for  her 
devotion  to  all  that  pertained  to  the  church,  had 

39 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

been  heard  to  state  that  "Brothah  Pahkah  was 
a  moughty  powahful  'zortah,  but  he  sholy  was 
monst'ous  biggity."  This  from  a  member  of 
his  flock  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  quite 
summed  up  the  plantation's  estimate  of  this  black 
disciple. 

There  was  many  a  time  when  it  would  have 
gone  hard  with  Brother  Parker  among  the  young 
bucks  on  the  Mordaunt  plantation  but  that  there 
was  scarcely  one  of  them  but  could  remember  a. 
time  when  Parker  had  come  to  his  cabin  to  con 
sole  some  sick  one,  help  a  seeker,  comfort  the  dy 
ing  or  close  the  eyes  of  one  already  dead,  and  it 
clothed  him  about  with  a  sacredness,  which,  how 
ever  much  inclined,  they  dared  not  invade. 

"Ain't  it  enough,"  Mandy's  Jim  used  to  say, 
"fu'  Brothah  Pahkah  to  'tend  to  his  business 
down  at  meetin'  widout  spookin'  'roun'  all  de 
cabins  an'  outhouses  ?  Seems  to  me  dey's  enough 
dev'ment  gwine  on  right  undah  his  nose  widout 
him  gwine  'roun'  tryin'  to  smell  out  what's  hid." 

Every  secret  sinner  on  the  place  agreed  with 
this  dictum,  and  it  came  to  the  preacher's  ears. 
He  smiled  broadly. 

"Uh,  huh,"  he  remarked,  "hit's  de  stuck  pig 
dat  squeals.  I  reckon  Jim's  up  to  some'p'n  right 

40 


How  Brother  Parker  Fell  from  Grace 

now,  an'  I  lay  I'll  fin'  out  what  dat  some'p'n  is." 
Parker  was  a  subtle  philosopher  and  Jim  had 
by  his  remark  unwittingly  disclosed  his  interest 
in  the  preacher's  doings.  It  then  behooved  his 
zealous  disciple  to  find  out  the  source  of  this  un 
usual  interest  and  opposition. 

On  the  Sunday  following  his  sermon  was 
strong,  fiery  and  convincing.  His  congregation 
gave  themselves  up  to  the  joy  of  the  occasion  and 
lost  all  consciousness  of  time  or  place  in  their 
emotional  ecstacy.  But,  although  he  continued 
to  move  them  with  his  eloquence,  not  for  one  mo 
ment  did  Parker  lose  possession  of  himself.  His 
eyes  roamed  over  the  people  before  him  and  took 
in  the  absence  of  several  who  had  most  loudly 
and  heartily  agreed  with  Jim's  dictum.  Jim  him 
self  was  not  there. 

"Uh,  huh,"  said  the  minister  to  himself  even 
in  the  midst  of  his  exhortations.  aUh,  huh,  er- 
way  on  some  dev'ment,  I  be  bounV  He  could 
hardly  wait  to  hurry  through  his  sermon.  Then 
he  seized  his  hat  and  almost  ran  away  from  the 
little  table  that  did  duty  as  a  pulpit  desk.  He 
brushed  aside  with  scant  ceremony  those  who 
would  have  asked  him  to  their  cabins  to  share 
some  special  delicacy,  and  made  his  way  swiftly 

41 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

to  the  door.  There  he  paused  and  cast  a  wonder 
ing  glance  about  the  plantation. 

"I  des  wondah  whaih  dem  scoun'els  is  mos' 
lakly  to  be."  Then  his  eye  fell  upon  an  old  half- 
ruined  smoke-house  that  stood  between  the 
kitchen  and  the  negro  quarters,  and  he  murmured 
to  himself,  "Lak  ez  not,  lak  ez  not."  But  he  did 
not  start  directly  for  the  object  of  his  suspicions. 
Oh,  no,  he  was  too  deep  a  diplomat  for  that.  He 
knew  that  if  there  were  wrongdoers  in  that  inno 
cent-looking  ruin  they  would  be  watching  in  his 
direction  about  the  time  when  they  expected 
meeting  to  be  out;  so  he  walked  off  swiftly,  but 
carelessly,  in  an  opposite  direction,  and,  instead 
of  going  straight  past  the  kitchen,  began  to  cir 
cle  around  from  the  direction  of  the  quarters, 
whence  no  danger  would  be  apprehended. 

As  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  the  place,  he 
thought  he  heard  the  rise  and  fall  of  eager  voices. 
He  approached  more  cautiously.  Now  he  was 
perfectly  sure  that  he  could  hear  smothered  con 
versation,  and  he  smiled  grimly  as  he  pictured 
to  himself  the  surprise  of  his  quarry  when  he 
should  come  up  with  them.  He  was  almost  upon 
the  smoke-house  now.  Those  within  were  so  ab- 

42 


How  Brother  Parker  Fell  from  Grace 

sorbed  that  the  preacher  was  able  to  creep  up  and 
peer  through  a  crack  at  the  scene  within. 

There,  seated  upon  the  earthen  floor,  were  the 
unregenerate  of  the  plantation.  In  the  very 
midst  of  them  was  Mandy's  Jim,  and  he  was 
dealing  from  a  pack  of  greasy  cards. 

It  is  a  wonder  that  they  did  not  hear  the 
preacher's  gasp  of  horror  as  he  stood  there  gaz 
ing  upon  the  iniquitous  performance.  But  they 
did  not.  The  delight  of  High-Low-Jack  was 
too  absorbing  for  that,  and  they  suspected  noth 
ing  of  Parker's  presence  until  he  slipped  around 
to  the  door,  pushed  it  open  and  confronted  them 
like  an  accusing  angel. 

Jim  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  strong  word  upon 
his  lips. 

"I  reckon  you  done  fu'got,  Brothah  Jim,  what 
day  dis  is,"  said  the  preacher. 

"I  ain't  fu'got  nuffin,"  was  the  dogged  reply; 
"I  don't  see  what  you  doin'  roun'  hyeah  nohow." 

*Ts  a  lookin'  aftah  some  strayin'  lambs,"  said 
Parker,  "an'  I  done  foun'  'em.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  o'  yo'se'ves,  evah  one  o'  you,  playin' 
cyards  on  de  Lawd's  day." 

There  was  the  light  of  reckless  deviltry  in 
Jim's  eyes. 

43 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Dey  ain't  no  h'am  in  a  little  game  o'  cyards." 

"Co'se  not,  co'se  not,"  replied  the  preacher 
scornfully.  "Dem's  des  de  sins  that's  ca'ied 
many  a  man  to  hell  wid  his  eyes  wide  open,  de 
little  no-ha'm  kin'." 

"I  don't  reckon  you  evah  played  cyards,"  said 
Jim  sneeringly. 

"Yes,  I  has  played,  an'  I  thought  I  was  en- 
joyin'  myse'f  ontwell  I  foun'  out  dat  it  was  all 
wickedness  an'  idleness." 

"Oh,  I  don't  reckon  you  was  evah  ve'y  much 
of  a  player.  I  know  lots  o'  men  who  has  got 
u'ligion  des  case  dey  couldn't  win  at  cyards." 

The  company  greeted  this  sally  with  a  laugh 
and  then  looked  aghast  at  Jim's  audacity. 

"U'ligion's  a  moughty  savin'  to  de  pocket," 
Jim  went  on.  "We  kin  believe  what  we  wants 
to,  and  I  say  you  nevah  was  no  playah,  an'  dat's 
de  reason  you  tuk  up  de  Gospel." 

"Hit  ain't  so.  I  'low  dey  was  a  time  when  I 
could  'a'  outplayed  any  one  o'  you  sinnahs  hyeah, 
but " 

"Prove  it!"  The  challenge  shot  forth  like  a 
pistol's  report. 

Parker  hesitated.  "What  you  mean?"  he 
said. 


How  Brother  Parker  Fell  from  Grace 

"Beat  me,  beat  all  of  us,  an'  we'll  believe  you 
didn't  quit  playin'  case  you  allus  lost.  You  a 
preachah  now,  an'  I  daih  you." 

Parker's  face  turned  ashen  and  his  hands 
gripped  together.  He  was  young  then,  and  the 
hot  blood  sped  tumultuously  through  his  veins. 

"Prove  it,"  said  Jim;  "you  cain't.  We'd  play 
you  outen  yo'  coat  an'  back  into  de  pulpit  ag'in." 

"You  would,  would  you?"  The  light  of  bat 
tle  was  in  Parker's  eyes,  the  desire  for  conquest 
throbbing  in  his  heart.  "Look  a'hyeah,  Jim, 
Sunday  er  no  Sunday,  preachah  er  no  preachah, 
I  play  you  th'ee  games  fu'  de  Gospel's  sake." 
And  the  preacher  sat  down  in  the  circle,  his  face 
tense  with  anger  at  his  tormentor's  insinuations. 
He  did  not  see  the  others  around  him.  He  saw 
only  Jim,  the  man  who  had  spoken  against  his 
cloth.  He  did  not  see  the  look  of  awe  and  sur 
prise  upon  the  faces  of  the  others,  nor  did  he  note 
that  one  of  the  assembly  slipped  out  of  the  shed 
just  as  the  game  began. 

Jim  found  the  preacher  no  mean  antagonist, 
but  it  mattered  little  to  him  whether  he  won  or 
not.  His  triumph  was  complete  when  he  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  this  man,  who  kept  the  con 
science  of  the  plantation,  to  sin  as  others  sinned. 

45 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"I  see  you  ain't  fu'got  yo'  cunnin',"  he  re 
marked  as  the  preacher  dealt  in  turn. 

"Tain't  no  time  to  talk  now,"  said  Parker 
fiercely. 

The  excitement  of  the  onlookers  grew  more 
and  more  intense.  They  were  six  and  six,  and 
it  was  the  preacher's  deal.  His  eyes  were  bright, 
and  he  was  breathing  quickly.  Parker  was  a  born 
fighter  and  nothing  gave  him  more  joy  than  the 
heat  of  the  battle  itself.  He  riffled  the  cards. 
Jim  cut.  He  dealt  and  turned  Jack.  Jim 
laughed. 

uYou  know  the  trick,"  he  said. 

"Dat's  one  game,"  said  Parker,  and  bent  over 
the  cards  as  they  came  to  him.  He  did  not  hear 
a  light  step  outside  nor  did  he  see  a  shadow  that 
fell  across  the  open  doorway.  He  was  just  about 
to  lead  when  a  cold  voice,  full  of  contempt,  broke 
upon  his  ear  and  made  him  keep  the  card  he 
would  have  played  poised  in  his  hand. 

"And  so  these  are  your  after-meeting  diver 
sions,  are  they,  Parker?"  said  his  master's  voice. 

Stuart  Mordaunt  was  standing  in  the  door,  his 
face  cold  and  stern,  while  his  informant  grinned 
maliciously. 

46 


i 


"  HIS    KYKS    \\KRK    BRHiHT,    AND    HI-:    WAS    P,R  KATI II  NT, 
OUICKLY  " 


How  Brother  Parker  Fell  from  Grace 

Parker  brushed  his  hand  across  his  brow  as  if 
dazed. 

"Well,  Mas'  Stua't,  he  do  play  monst'ous  well 
fu'  a  preachah,"  said  his  tempter. 

The  preacher  at  these  words  looked  steadily 
at  Jim,  and  then  the  realization  of  his  position 
burst  upon  him.  The  tiger  in  him  came  upper 
most  and,  with  flaming  eyes,  he  took  a  quick  step 
toward  Jim. 

"Stop,"  said  Mordaunt,  coming  between 
them ;  don't  add  anything  more  to  what  you  have 
already  done." 

"Mas'  Stua't,  I— I "  Parker  broke  down, 

and,  turning  away  from  the  exultant  faces, 
rushed  headlong  out  of  the  place.  His  master 
followed  more  leisurely,  angry  and  hurt  at  the 
hypocrisy  of  a  trusted  servant. 

Of  course  the  game  was  over  for  that  day,  but 
Jim  and  his  companions  hung  around  the  smoke 
house  for  some  time,  rejoicing  in  the  downfall  of 
their  enemy.  Afterward,  they  went  to  their 
cabins  for  dinner.  Then  Jim  made  a  mistake. 
With  much  laughter  and  boasting  he  told  Mandy 
all  about  it,  and  then  suddenly  awakened  to  the 
fact  that  she  was  listening  to  him  with  a  face  on 
which  only  horror  was  written.  Jim  turned  to 

47 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

his  meal  in  silence  and  disgust.     A  woman  has  no 
sense  of  humor. 

"Whaih  you  gwine?"  he  asked,  as  Mandy  be 
gan  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  with  omin 
ous  precision. 

"Ps  gwine  up  to  de  big  house,  dat's  whaih  Ps 
gwine." 

"What  you  gwine  daih  fu'  ?" 

"Ps  gwine  to  tell  Mas'  Stua't  all  erbout  hit." 

"Don't  you  daih." 

"Heish  yo'  mouf.  Don't  you  talk  to  me,  you 
nasty,  low-life  scamp.  Ps  gwine  tell  Mas'  Stua't, 
an'  I  hope  an'  pray  he'll  tek  all  de  hide  often  yo 
back." 

Jim  sat  in  bewildered  misery  as  Mandy  flirted 
out  of  the  cabin;  he  felt  vaguely  some  of  the 
hopelessness  of  defeat  which  comes  to  a  man 
whenever  he  attempts  to  lay  sacrilegious  hands 
on  a  woman's  religion  or  what  stands  to  her  for 
religion. 

Parker  was  sitting  alone  in  his  cabin  with 
bowed  head  when  the  door  opened  and  his  mas 
ter  came  across  the  floor  and  laid  his  hand  gently 
on  the  negro's  shoulder. 

"I  didn't  know  how  it  was,  Parker."  he  said 
softly. 

43 


How  Brother  Parker  Fell  from  Grace 

"Oh,  I's  back-slid,  I's  fell  from  grace," 
moaned  Parker. 

"Nonsense,"  said  his  master,  "you've  fallen 
from  nothing.  There  are  times  when  weVe  got 
to  meet  the  devil  on  his  own  ground  and  fight  him 
with  his  own  weapons." 

Parker  raised  his  head  gladly.  "Say  dem 
wo'ds  ag'in,  Mas'  Stua't,"  he  said. 

His  master  repeated  the  words,  but  added: 
"But  it  isn't  safe  to  go  into  the  devil's  camp  too 
often,  Parker." 

"I  ain't  gwine  into  his  camp  no  mo'.  Aftah 
dis  Ps  gwine  to  stan'  outside  an'  hollah  in."  His 
face  was  beaming  and  his  voice  trembled  with 
joy. 

"I  didn't  think  Pd  preach  to-night,"  he  said 
timidly. 

"Of  course  you  will,"  said  Mordaunt,  "and 
your  mistress  and  I  are  coming  to  hear  you,  so 
do  your  best." 

His  master  went  out  and  Parker  went  down 
on  his  knees. 

He  did  preach  that  night  and  the  plantation 
remembered  the  sermon. 


49 


THE  TROUSERS. 

It  was  a  nasty,  rainy  Sunday  morning.  The 
dripping  skies  lowered  forbiddingly  and  the 
ground  about  the  quarters  was  slippery  with  mud 
and  punctuated  with  frequent  dirty  puddles 
where  the  rain  had  collected  in  the  low  spots. 
Through  this  Brother  Parker,  like  the  good  pas 
tor  that  he  was,  was  carefully  picking  his  way 
toward  the  log  meeting  house  on  the  border  of 
the  big  woods,  for  neither  storm  nor  rain  could 
keep  him  away  from  his  duty  however  careless 
his  flock  might  prove.  He  was  well  on  his  way 
when  he  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  a  voice  call 
ing  him  from  one  of  the  cabins,  and  Ike,  one  of 
the  hands,  came  running  after  him.  His  wife, 
Caroline,  was  sick,  and  as  she  could  not  get  to 
church,  she  desired  the  pastor's  immediate  spir 
itual  ministrations  at  her  own  house. 

The  preacher  turned  back  eagerly.  His  duty 
was  always  sweet  to  him  and  nothing  gave  him 
so  keen  a  sense  of  pleasure  as  to  feel  that  he  was 
hurried  to  attend  to  all  that  needed  him — that 
one  duty  crowded  upon  the  heels  of  another. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  strong  man  of  prayer  in  the 

50 


The  Trousers 

sick  room  and  some  word  that  he  should  say 
might  fall  as  a  seed  upon  the  uncultivated  ground 
of  Ike's  heart,  or  if  not,  that  he  might  heap  coals 
of  fire  upon  his  head,  for  he  was  still  a  sinner. 

With  these  thoughts  and  speculations  in  his 
mind,  he  started  back  to  the  cabin.  But  alas,  for 
his  haste,  a  sneaking,  insidious  piece  of  land  lay 
in  wait  for  him.  Upon  this  he  stepped.  In  an 
other  instant,  his  feet  were  pointing  straight  be 
fore  him  and  he  sat  down  suddenly  in  one  of  the 
biggest  of  the  mud  puddles.  The  tails  of  his 
long  coat  spread  out  about  him  and  covered  him 
like  a  blanket. 

"Oomph!"  he  exclaimed  as  if  the  impact  had 
driven  the  word  from  his  lips,  and  for  a  moment 
he  sat  looking  pitifully  up  into  Ike's  face,  as  if 
to  see  if  there  were  any  laughter  there.  But  there 
was  no  mirth  in  the  younger  man's  countenance. 

"Did  you  hu't  yo'se'f,  Brother  Pahkah?"  he 
asked,  offering  his  hand. 

"Well,  seems  like  hit's  shuck  me  up  a  leetle. 
But  I  reckon  hit'll  des'  settle  my  bones  mo' 
natchally  fu'  de  grave." 

"Hit's  too  bad  I  had  to  call  you.  Hit  nevah 
would  a'  happened  if  it  hadn't  a  been  fu'  dat." 

"Heish,  man.  Hit's  all  right.  De  shephud 
51 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

muss  answeh  de  call  o'  de  lambs,  don'  keer  whut 
de  weathah  an'  whut  de  tribbilations,  dat's  what 
he  fuV 

The  old  man  spoke  heroically,  but  he  felt  rue 
fully  his  soaking  and  damaged  trousers  even 
while  the  words  were  on  his  lips. 

"Well,  let's  pu'su'  ouah  way." 

He  took  up  his  hurried  walk  again  and  led  Ike 
to  his  own  door,  the  cloth  of  his  garments  stick 
ing  to  him  and  the  tails  of  his  coat  flapping  damp 
ly  about  his  legs. 

It  has  been  maintained,  with  some  degree  of 
authority  to  enforce  the  statement,  that  the 
Americanized  African  is  distinctly  averse  to  cold 
water.  If  this  is  true,  Parker  was  giving  a  glow 
ing  illustration  of  the  warmth  of  his  religion  or 
the  strength  of  his  endurance,  for  not  once  did 
he  murmur  or  make  mention  of  his  wet  clothes 
even  when  the  sick  woman,  all  unconscious  of  his 
misfortune,  started  in  upon  a  long  history  of  her 
bodily  ailments  and  spiritual  experiences.  He 
gave  her  sound  pastoral  advice,  condoled  with 
her  and  prayed  with  her.  But  when  his  ministra 
tions  were  over,  something  like  a  sigh  of  relief 
broke  from  the  old  man's  breast. 

He  turned  at  once  to  Ike :  "Brothah  Ike,"  he 
52 


The  Trousers 

said.  "I's  feared  to  go  on  to  meetin'  in  dese 
pants.  I's  ol'  an'  dey  ain't  no  tellin'  but  I'd  tek 
col'.  Has  you  got  a  spaih  paih  'bout?" 

Ike  was  suddenly  recalled  to  himself,  and  his 
wife,  upon  hearing  the  matter  explained,  was  for 
getting  up  and  helping  to  brush  and  fix  up  the 
none  too  neat  pair  of  trousers  that  her  husband 
found  for  the  preacher.  Dissuaded  from  doing 
this,  she  was  loud  in  denunciations  of  her  inno 
cent  self  for  keeping  brother  Parker  so  long  in 
his  wet  garments.  But  the  old  man,  thankful  to 
get  out  of  them  at  last,  bade  her  not  to  worry. 

'"I  reckon  it's  de  oldes'  bosses  aftah  all  dat 
kin  stan'  de  ha'des'  whacks,"  he  said,  and  with 
these  cheery  words  hastened  off  to  meeting. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  he  was  late  in  arriving, 
and  his  congregation  were  singing  hymn  after 
hymn  as  he  came  up  in  order  to  pass  the  time  and 
keep  themselves  in  the  spirit.  It  warmed  his 
heart  as  he  heard  the  rolling  notes  and  he  was 
all  ready  to  dash  into  his  sermon  as  soon  as  he 
was  seated  before  the  table  that  did  duty  as  a 
reading  desk.  He  flung  himself  into  the  hymn 
with  all  the  power  that  was  in  him,  and  even  be 
fore  his  opening  prayer  was  done,  the  congrega- 

53 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

tion  showed  that  it  was  unable  to  contain  its  holy 
joy. 

"OP  Brothah  Pahkah  sholy  is  full  of  de  spirit 
dis  mo'nin,"  Aunt  Fanny  whispered  to  Aunt 
Tempe,  and  Aunt  Tempe  whispered  back,  "I 
reckon  he  done  been  in  his  secut  closet  an'  had 
a  pensacoshul  showah  befo'  he  come." 

"He  sholy  been  a  dwellin'  on  Mount  Sinai. 
Seem  lak  he  mus  a'hyeahed  de  thundah." 

"Heish,  honey,  he's  a  thunde'in  hisself." 

And  so  like  the  whisper  of  waves  on  a  shore, 
the  ripple  of  comment  ran  around  the  meeting 
house,  for  there  were  none  present  but  saw  that 
in  some  way  the  spirit  had  mysteriously  de 
scended  upon  their  pastor. 

Just  as  the  prayer  ended  and  the  congregation 
had  swung  into  another  spiritual  hymn,  Ike  en 
tered  with  a  scared  look  upon  his  face  and  took 
a  seat  far  back  near  the  door.  He  glanced  sheep 
ishly  about  the  church,  and  then  furtively  at 
Brother  Parker.  Once  he  made  as  if  to  rise,  but 
thinking  better  of  it,  ducked  his  head  and  kept 
his  seat. 

Now,  if  one  thing  more  than  another  was 
needed  to  fire  the  exhorter,  it  was  the  voluntary 
presence  of  this  sinner  untouched  by  the  gospel. 

54 


The  Trousers 

His  eyes  glowed  and  his  old  frame  quivered  with 
emotion.  He  would  deliver  a  message  that 
morning  that  would  be  pointed  straight  at  the 
heart  of  Ike. 

To  the  observer  not  absorbed  by  one  idea, 
however,  there  was  something  particularly 
strange  in  the  actions  of  this  last  comer.  Some 
things  that  he  did  did  not  seem  to  argue  that  he 
had  come  to  the  house  of  worship  seeking  a 
means  of  grace.  After  his  almost  stealthy  en 
trance  and  his  first  watchful  glances  about  the 
room,  he  had  subsided  into  his  seat  with  an  atti 
tude  that  betokened  a  despair  not  wholly  spir 
itual.  His  eyes  followed  every  motion  the 
preacher  made  as  he  rose  and  looked  over  the 
congregation  and  he  grew  visibly  more  uneasy. 
Once  or  twice  it  seemed  that  the  door  behind 
him  opened  a  bit  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  sev 
eral  times  he  turned  and  looked  that  way,  on  one 
occasion  giving  his  head  a  quick  shake  when  the 
door  was  hastily,  but  softly  closed. 

When  Parker  began  his  sermon  Ike  crept  guilt 
ily  to  his  feet  to  slip  out,  but  the  old  preacher 
paused  with  his  eyes  upon  him,  saying,  "I  hope 
none  o'  de  congregation  will  leave  de  sanctuary  be- 
fo'  de  sehvice  is  ended.  We  is  in  now,  an'  gettin' 

55 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

up  will  distu'b  de  res.'  Hit  ain't  gwine  hu't  none 
of  us  to  gin  one  day  to  de  Lawd,  spechully  ef  dem 
what  is  neah  an'  deah  unto  us  is  layin'  erpon  de 
bed  of  affliction,"  and  the  man  had  sunk  back 
miserably  into  his  seat  with  the  looks  of  all  his 
fellows  fixed  on  him.  From  then,  he  watched  the 
preacher  as  if  fascinated. 

Parker  was  in  his  glory.  He  had  before  him 
a  sinner  writhing  on  the  Gospel  gridiron  and 
how  he  did  apply  the  fire. 

Ike  moved  about  and  squirmed,  but  the  old 
man  held  him  with  his  eye  while  he  heaped  coals 
of  fire  upon  the  head  of  the  sinner  man.  He 
swept  the  whole  congregation  with  his  gaze,  but 
it  came  back  and  rested  on  Ike  as  he  broke  into 
the  song, 

"Oh,  sinnah,  you  needn't  try  to  run  erway, 
You  sho'  to  be  caught  on  de  jedgment  day." 

He  sung  the  camp  meeting  "spiritual"  with  its 
powerful  personal  allusions  all  through,  and  then 
resumed  his  sermon.  "Oh,  I  tell  you  de  Gospel 
is  a  p'inted  swo'd  to  de  sinnah.  Hit  mek  him 
squi'm,  hit  mek  him  shivvah  and  hit  mek  him 
shek.  He  sing  loud  in  de  day,  but  he  hide  his 

56 


_  , 

S7\. 

k*  -vQ 


'  i  TELL  yor,  DK  GOSPEL  is  A  p  INTED  s\vo  D  TO  DE 
SINXAH'  " 


The  Trousers 

face  at  night.  Oh,  sinnah,  what  you  gwine  to  do 
on  de  gret  day  ?  What  do  de  song  say  ? 

'Wen  de  rocks  an'  de  mountains  shell  all  flee  erway, 
W'y  a  you  shell  have  a  new  hidin'  place  dat  day/ 

Oh,  sinnah  man,  is  you  a  huntin'  fu'  de  new  hid 
in'  place?  Is  you  a  fixin'  fu'  de  time  w'en  de 
rocks  shell  be  melted  an'  de  mountains  shell  run 
lak  rivers?" 

Parker  had  settled  well  down  to  his  work.  As 
his  own  people  would  have  expressed  it,  "He'd 
done  tried  de  watah  an'  waded  out."  They  were 
shouting  and  crying  aloud  as  he  talked.  A  low 
minor  of  moans  ran  around  the  room,  punctu 
ated  by  the  sharp  slapping  of  hands  and  stamp 
ing  of  feet.  On  all  sides  there  were  cries  of 
"Truth,  truth!"  "Amen!"  "Amen!"  and  "Keep 
in  de  stream,  Pahkah;  keep  in  de  stream !" 

This  encouragement  was  meat  to  the  pastor's 
soul  and  he  rose  on  the  wings  of  his  eloquence. 
The  sweat  was  pouring  down  his  black  face.  He 
put  his  hand  back  to  his  pocket  to  pull  out 
his  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  face.  It  came 
out  with  a  flourish,  and  with  it  a  pack  of 
cards.  They  flew  into  the  air,  wavered  and  then 
fluttered  down  like  a  flock  of  doves.  Aces, 

57 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

jacks,  queens  and  tens  settled  all  about  the  floor 
grinning  wickedly  face  upward.  Parker  stopped 
still  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence  and  gazed  speech 
less  at  the  guilty  things  before  him.  The  people 
gasped.  It  all  flashed  over  them  in  a  minute. 
They  had  heard  a  story  of  their  pastor's  fond 
ness  for  the  devil's  picture  books  in  his  younger 
days  and  now  it  had  come  back  upon  him  and  he 
had  fallen  once  more.  Here  was  incontestable 
proof. 

Parker,  in  a  dazed  way,  put  his  hand  again 
into  his  back  pocket  and  brought  forth  the  king 
of  spades.  His  flock  groaned. 

"Come  down  outen  dat  pulpit,"  cried  one  of 
the  bolder  ones.  "Come  down !" 

Then  Parker  found  his  voice. 

"Fo'  de  lawd,  folks,"  he  said,  gazing  sorrow 
fully  at  the  king.  "Dese  ain't  my  pants  ner  my 
cyards."  Then  his  eye  fell  upon  Ike,  who  was 
taking  advantage  of  the  confusion  to  make 
toward  the  door  and  he  thundered  at  him. 
"Come  back  hyeah,  you  rapscallion,  an'  claim 
yo'  dev'ment !  Come  back  hyeah." 

Ike  came  shamefacedly  back.  He  came  for 
ward  and  commenced  to  pick  up  the  cards  while 
Parker  was  making  his  explanations  to  the  re- 

58 


The  Trousers 

lieved  flock.  The  sinner  got  all  of  the  cards, 
except  one  and  that  one  the  preacher  still  held. 

"Brothah  Pahkah,  Brother  Pahkah,"  he  whis 
pered,  "You's  a  hol'in'  de  king."  The  old  man 
dropped  it  as  if  it  had  burnt  him  and  grabbing 
it,  the  scapegrace  fled. 

Outside  the  door  all  things  were  explained. 
Several  fellows  with  angry  faces  were  waiting 
for  Ike. 

"Couldn't  he'p  it,  boys,"  he  said.  "He  done 
begun  sehvice  w'en  I  got  in.  I  couldn't  stop 
him,  an'  den  w'en  he  dropped  all  the  res'  he  held 
on  to  de  king." 

"Well,  all  I  got  to  say,"  said  the  fiercest  of 
the  lot,  "don'  you  nevah  put  dat  deck  in  yo' 
pocket  no  mo'  an'  len'  yo'  pants.  Come  on,  de 
game's  been  waitin'  a  houah,  put'  nigh." 


59 


THE  LAST  FIDDLING  OF  MOR- 
DAUNT'S  JIM. 

When  the  Spirit  has  striven  with  a  man  year 
after  year  without  success,  when  he  has  been  con 
victed  and  then  gone  back,  when  he  has  been  con 
verted  and  then  backslidden,  it's  about  time  to 
say  of  him  that  there  is  the  devil's  property,  with 
his  deed  signed  and  sealed.  All  of  these  things 
had  happened  to  Jim.  He  became  serious  and 
bowed  his  head  in  the  meeting  house,  a  sure  sign 
of  contrition  and  religious  intention,  but  the  very 
next  night  he  had  been  caught  "wingin'  "  behind 
the  smoke-house  with  the  rest  of  the  unregener- 
ate.  Once  he  had  actually  cried  out  "Amen!" 
but  it  was  afterwards  found  out  that  one  of  his 
fellows  had  trodden  upon  his  foot,  and  that  the 
uAmen"  came  in  lieu  of  a  less  virtuous  expletive. 

Had  it  been  that  Jim's  iniquities  affected  him 
self  only  he  might  have  been  endured,  at  least 
with  greater  patience;  but  this  was  not  so.  He 
was  the  prime  mover  in  every  bit  of  deviltry  that 
set  the  plantation  by  the  ears,  and  the  most 
effectual  destroyer  of  every  religious  influence 
that  its  master  attempted  to  throw  around  it. 

60 


The  Last  Fiddling  of  Mordaunt's  Jim 

His  one  fiddle  had  caused  more  backsliding, 
more  flagrant  defections  from  the  faith  than  had 
any  other  invention  of  the  devil  that  the  planta 
tion  knew. 

All  of  Parker's  pleas  and  sermons  had  been 
unavailing — even  his  supreme  exhortation,  when 
he  threatened  the  wicked  with  eternal  fiddling, 
when  their  souls  should  be  pining  for  rest  and 
silence  and  never  find  it.  Jim  was  there,  but  he 
appeared  unmoved.  He  laughed  when  Parker 
broke  out,  "Fiddle  on,  you  sinnahs,  fiddle  on! 
But  de  time'll  come  w'en  you'll  want  to  hyeah 
praih,  an'  you'll  hyeah  a  fiddle;  w'en  you'll  want 
to  sing  a  hymn,  an'  you'll  hyeah  a  fiddle;  w'en 
you'll  be  list'nin'  fu'  de  soun'  of  de  angels'  voices 
erbove  de  noise  of  earf,  an'  you'll  hyeah  a  fiddle. 
Fiddle  on,  sinnahs,  but  w'en  you  hyeah  de  soun' 
of  Jerdon  a-dashin'  on  de  rocks,  w'en  you  hyeah 
de  watah  leapin'  an'  a-lashin',  way  up  erbove 
dem  all  you'll  hyeah  de  devil  fiddlin'  fu'  you  an' 
you'll  follah  him  on  an'  into  dat  uttah  da'kness 
whaih  dey  is  wailin'  an'  gnash-in'  o'  teef.  Fiddle 
on,  sinnah,  fiddle  on !  dance  on,  sinnah,  dance 
on!  laugh  on,  sinnah,  laugh  on!  but  I  tell  you 
de  time  will  come  w'en  dat  laughin'  will  be 
tu'ned  to  weepin',  an'  de  soun'  of  de  fiddle  shell 

61 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

be  as  de  call  of  de  las'  trump  in  yo'  yeahs."  And 
Jim  laughed.  He  went  home  that  night  and  fid 
dled  until  nearly  morning. 

"  Tears  to  me,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "a  good 
fiddle  'ud  be  a  moughty  fine  t'ing  to  hyeah  ez  a 
body  was  passin'  ovah  Jerdon,  ez  ol'  Pahkah 
calls  it." 

"Nemmine,  Jim,"  said  Mandy,  solemn  and 
shocked;  unemmine,  you  an'  yo'  dev'ment. 
Brothah  Pahkah  right,  an'  de  time  gwine  come 
w'en  dat  fiddle  gwine  ter  be  to  yo'  soul  ez  a  mill 
stone  dat  been  cas'  in  de  middle  of  de  sea,  dat'll 
bring  fo'th  tares,  some  fifty  an'  some  a  hund'ed 
fol'.  Nemmine,  all  I  got  to  say  to  you,  you 
bettah  listen  to  de  Wo'd  ez  it  is  preached." 

"Mandy,"  said  Jim  irreverently,  "d'you 
'membah  dat  ol'  chune,  'Hoe  co'n,  an'  dig  per- 
taters?'  Don't  it  go  'long  somep'n'  lak  dis?" 

"Lawsy,  yes,  honey,  dat's  hit,"  and  before  the 
poor  deluded  creature  knew  what  she  was  doing 
she  was  nodding  her  head  in  time  to  the  seduc 
tive  melody,  while  Jim  fiddled  and  chuckled 
within  himself  until  the  joke  was  too  much  for 
him,  and  he  broke  down  and  ended  with  a  discord 
which  brought  Mandy  to  her  sorrowing  senses. 

Her  discretion  came  to  her,  though  not  before 
62 


The  Last  Fiddling  of  Mordaunt's  Jim 

Parker's  white  inquisitive  head  had  been  stuck  in 
at  the  door. 

"Lawd,  Sis'  Mandy,"  he  cried  in  dismay,  uyou 
ain't  collogin'  wid  de  spe'it  of  de  devil,  too,  is 
you  ?  Lawd  a'  mussy,  'pon  my  soul,  an'  you  one 
of  de  faifful  of  de  flock !  My  soul !" 

"I  ain't  been  collogin'  wid  de  devil,  Brothah 
Pahkah,"  said  Mandy  contritely,  "but  dat  rap 
scallion,  he  fool  me  an'  got  my  haid  to  gwine  'fo' 
I  knowed  whut  I  was  'bout." 

"Uh,  uh,  uh,"  murmured  the  preacher. 

Jim  was  convulsed.  "Hit  sho'  is  a  mighty 
funny  Tigion  you  preaches,  Brothah  Pahkah, 
w'en  one  fiddle  chune  kin  des'  mortally  lay  out 
all  o'  yo'  himes." 

Parker  turned  on  Jim  with  the  old  battle  fire 
in  his  eyes.  "Go  on!"  he  cried.  "Go  on,  but  I 
lay  you'll  fiddle  yo'se'f  in  hell  yit!"  And  with 
out  more  ado  he  stamped  away.  He  was  very 
old,  and  his  temper  was  shorter  than  it  used  to 
be. 

The  events  of  the  next  week  followed  each 
other  in  quick  succession  and  there  are  many 
tales,  none  fully  authenticated,  about  what  really 
occurred.  Some  say  that,  hurt  to  the  quick,  Par 
ker  tramped  around  late  that  night  after  his  visit 

63 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

to  Jim's  cabin.  Others  say  that  he  was  old  and 
feeble  and  that  his  decline  was  inevitable.  What 
ever  the  truth  about  the  cause  of  it,  the  old  man 
was  taken  with  a  heavy  cold  which  developed 
into  fever.  Here,  too,  chroniclers  disagree,  for 
some  say  that  at  no  time  was  he  out  of  his  head, 
and  that  his  wild  ravings  about  fiddles  and  fid- 
dlings  were  the  terrible  curses  that  a  righteous 
man  may  put,  and  often  does  put,  on  a  sinner. 

For  days  the  old  man's  life  hung  in  the  bal 
ance,  and  Jim  grew  contrite  under  the  report  of 
his  sufferings  and  Mandy's  accusations.  Indeed, 
he  fiddled  no  more,  and  the  offending  "box,"  as 
he  called  it,  lay  neglected  on  a  shelf. 

"Yes,  you  tryin'  to  git  good  now,  aftah  you 
mos'  nigh  killed  dat  ol'  man,  havin'  him  trompin' 
erroun'  in  de  night  aih  lookin'  aftah  yo'  dev'- 
ment."  Women  are  so  cruel  when  they  feel 
themselves  in  the  right. 

"He  wan't  trompin'  erroun'  aftah  me.  I  ain't 
nevah  sont  fu'  him,"  was  always  Jim's  sullen 
reply. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  beatin'  erbout  de  bush;  you 
knows  you  been  causin'  dat  ol'  man  a  heap  er 
trouble,  an'  many's  de  time  he  mought  'a'  been 

64 


The  Last  Fiddling  of  Mordaunt's  Jim 

in  baid  takin'  a  good  res'  ef  it  hadn't  been  fu' 
yo'  ca'in'  on." 

Jim  grinned  a  sickly  grin  and  lapsed  into 
silence.  What  was  the  use  of  arguing  with  a 
woman  anyway,  and  how  utterly  useless  it  was 
when  the  argument  happened  to  be  about  her 
preacher!  It  is  really  a  remarkable  thing  how, 
when  it  comes  to  woman,  the  philosophy  of  man 
in  the  highest  and  lowest  grades  of  life  arrives 
at  the  same  conclusion.  So  Jim  kept  his  mouth 
shut  for  several  days  until  the  one  on  which  the 
news  came  that  Parker  had  rallied  and  was  "on 
the  mend;"  then  he  opened  it  to  guffaw.  This 
brought  Mandy  down  upon  him  once  more. 

"I  sholy  don't  know  whut  to  mek  o'  you,  Jim. 
Instid  o'  spreadin'  dat  mouf  o'  yo'n,  you  ought 
to  be  down  on  yo'  knees  a-thankin'  de  Lawd  dat 
Brothah  Pahkah  ain't  passed  ovah  an'  lef  yo' 
'niquities  on  yo'  soul." 

"La,  chile,  heish  up;  I's  gwine  celebrate 
Brothah  Pahkah's  Wry." 

Jim  busied  himself  with  dusting  and  tuning 
his  neglected  instrument,  and  immediately  after 
supper  its  strains  resounded  again  through  the 
quarters.  It  rose  loud  and  long,  a  gladsome 
sound.  What  wonder,  then,  that  many  of  the 

65 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

young  people,  happy  in  their  old  pastor's  recov 
ery,  should  gather  before  Jim's  cabin  and  foot 
it  gayly  there  ? 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  merriment  a  messenger 
hastened  into  the  cabin  with  the  intelligence  that 
Brother  Parker  wanted  Jim  at  his  cabin.  Some 
thing  in  the  messenger's  face,  or  in  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  made  Jim  lay  his  fiddle  aside  and  hurry 
to  Parker's  bedside. 

"Howdy,  Bud'  Jim?"  said  Parker  weakly. 

"Howdy,  Brothah  Pahkah?"  said  Jim  nerv 
ously;  "how  you  come  on?" 

"Well,  I's  clothed  an'  in  my  right  min'  at  las', 
bless  Gawd.  Been  havin'  a  little  frolic  down  to 
yo'  cabin  to-night?" 

Jim  twirled  his  piece  of  hat  tremulously. 

"Yes,  suh,  we  was  a  kin'  o'  celebratin'  yo'  git- 
tin'  well." 

"Dat  uz  a  moughty  po'  way  o'  celebratin'  fu' 
me,  Jim,  but  I  ain't  gwine  scol'  you  now.  Dey 
say  dat  w'ile  I  wuz  outen  my  haid  I  said  ha'd 
tings  erbout  you  an'  yo'  fiddlin',  Jim.  An'  now 
dat  de  Lawd  has  giv'  me  my  senses  back  ergin,  I 
want  to  ax  yo'  pa'don." 

"Brothah  Pahkah,"  Jim  interrupted  brokenly, 
66 


The  Last  Fiddling  of  Mordaunt's  Jim 

"I  ain't  meant  no  ha'm  to'ds  you.  Hit  des'  mus' 
'a'  been  natchul  dev'ment  in  me." 

"I  ain't  a-blamin'  you,  Jim,  I  ain't  a-blamin' 
you;  I  only  wanted  to  baig  yo'  pa'don  fu'  whut- 
evah  I  said  w'en  my  min'  wan't  mine." 

"You  don'  need  to  baig  my  pa'don." 

"Run  erlong  now,  Jim,  an'  ac'  de  bes'  you  kin; 
so-long." 

"So-long,  Brothah  Pahkah,"  and  the  contrite 
sinner  went  slowly  out  and  back  to  the  cabin,  sor 
row,  fear,  and  remorse  tugging  at  his  heart. 

He  went  back  to  his  cabin  and  to  bed  at  once, 
but  he  could  not  sleep  for  the  vague  feeling  of 
waiting  that  held  his  eyes  open  and  made  him 
start  at  every  sound.  An  hour  passed  with  him 
under  this  nervous  tension  and  then  a  tap  came 
at  the  door.  He  sprang  up  to  open  it,  and 
Mandy,  as  if  moved  by  the  same  impulse,  rose 
and  began  to  dress  hurriedly.  Yes,  his  worst 
fears  were  realized.  Parker  was  worse,  and  they 
sent  for  Mandy  to  nurse  him  in  what  they  be 
lieved  to  be  his  last  hours. 

Jim  dressed,  too,  and  for  a  while  stood  in  the 
door  watching  the  lights  and  shadows  moving 
over  in  the  direction  of  the  preacher's  cabin. 
Then  an  ague  seemed  to  seize  him,  and  with  a 

67 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

shiver  he  came  back  into  the  room  and  closed 
and  bolted  the  door. 

He  had  sat  there,  it  seemed,  a  long  while, 
when  suddenly  out  of  the  stillness  of  the  night  a 
faint  sound  struck  on  his  ears.  It  was  as  if  some 
one  far  away  were  fiddling,  fiddling  a  wild,  weird 
tune.  Jim  sat  bolt  upright,  and  the  sweat  broke 
out  upon  his  face  in  great  cold  drops.  He  waited. 
The  fiddling  came  nearer.  Jim's  lips  began  mov 
ing  in  silent,  but  agitated,  prayer.  Nearer  and 
nearer  came  the  sound,  and  the  face  of  the  scape 
grace  alone  in  the  cabin  turned  ashen  with  fear, 
then  seizing  his  own  fiddle,  he  smashed  it  into 
bits  upon  the  chair,  crying  the  while :  "Lawd, 
Lawd,  spaih  me,  an'  I'll  nevah  fiddle  ergin!" 
He  was  on  his  knees  now,  but  the  demon  of  the 
fiddle  came  so  relentlessly  on  that  he  sprang  up 
and  hurled  himself  against  the  door  in  a  very 
ecstasy  of  terror  while  he  babbled  prayer  on 
prayer  for  protection,  for  just  one  more  trial. 
Then  it  seemed  that  his  prayer  had  been  an 
swered.  The  music  began  to  recede.  It  grew 
fainter  and  fainter  and  passed  on  into  silence. 

Not,  however,  until  the  last  note  had  passed 
away  did  Jim  leave  the  door  and  sink  helpless  on 
his  knees  beside  the  broken  fiddle.  It  seemed 


The  Last  Fiddling  of  Mordaunt's  Jim 

ages  before  he  opened  the   door  to   Mandy's 
knock. 

"Brothah  Pahkah  done  daid,"  she  said  sadly. 

"I  know  it,"  Jim  replied;  "I  knowed  it  w'en 
he  died,  'case  de  devil  come  fu'  me,  an'  tried  to 
fiddle  my  soul  erway  to  hell,  an'  he  'u'd  done  it, 
too,  ef  I  hadn't  a-wrassled  in  praih." 

"Jim,  has  you  been  visited?" 

"I  has,"  was  the  solemn  reply,  "an'  I'll  nevah 
fiddle  no  mo'  ez  long  ez  I  live.  Daih's  de  fiddle." 

Mandy  looked  at  the  broken  instrument,  and 
the  instinct  of  thrift  drove  out  her  superstition. 
"Jim,"  she  cried  out  angrily,  "whut  you  wan'  'o 
go  brek  up  dat  good  fiddle  fu'?  Why'n't  you 
sell  it?" 

"No,  ma'am,  no  ma'am,  I  know  whut's  in  dat 
fiddle.  I's  been  showed,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  temp' 
no  man  wid  de  devil's  inst'ument." 

From  that  moment  Jim  was  a  pious  man,  and 
at  the  great  funeral  which  they  gave  Brother 
Parker  a  few  days  later  there  was  no  more  seri 
ous  and  devout  mourner  than  he.  The  whole 
plantation  marveled  and  the  only  man  who  held 
the  key  to  the  situation  could  not  tell  the  story. 
He  was  only  a  belated  serenader  who  had  fiddled 
to  keep  up  his  spirits  on  a  lonely  road. 

69 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

But  Parker's  work  was  not  without  its  frui 
tion,  for  his  death  accomplished  what  his  life  had 
failed  to  do,  and  no  more  moral  story  was  known 
or  told  on  the  plantation  than  that  of  the  last 
fiddling  of  Mordaunt's  Jim. 


A  SUPPER  BY  PROXY. 

There  was  an  air  of  suppressed  excitement 
about  the  whole  plantation.  The  big  old  house 
stared  gravely  out  as  if  it  could  tell  great  things 
if  it  would,  and  the  cabins  in  the  quarters  looked 
prophetic.  The  very  dogs  were  on  the  alert,  and 
there  was  expectancy  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  pic 
caninnies  who  rolled  in  the  dust.  Something 
was  going  to  happen.  There  was  no  denying 
that.  The  wind  whispered  it  to  the  trees  and  the 
trees  nodded. 

Then  there  was  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs,  the 
crack  of  a  whip.  The  bays  with  the  family  car 
riage  swept  round  the  drive  and  halted  at  the 
front  porch.  Julius  was  on  the  box,  resplendent 
in  his  holiday  livery.  This  was  the  signal  for  a 
general  awakening.  The  old  house  leered  an  ir 
ritating  "I  told  you  so."  The  quarters  looked 
complacent.  The  dogs  ran  and  barked,  the  pic- 
canninnies  laughed  and  shouted,  the  servants 
gathered  on  the  lawn  and,  in  the  midst  of  it  all, 
the  master  and  mistress  came  down  the  steps  and 
got  into  the  carriage.  Another  crack  of  the 
whip,  a  shout  from  the  servants,  more  antics 

71 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

from  the  piccaninnies,  the  scurrying  of  the  dogs 
— and  the  vehicle  rumbled  out  of  sight  behind  a 
clump  of  maples.  Immediately  the  big  house  re 
sumed  its  natural  appearance  and  the  quarters 
settled  back  into  whitewashed  respectability. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt  were  off  for  a  week'r 
visit.  The  boys  were  away  at  school,  and  here 
was  the  plantation  left  in  charge  of  the  negroes 
themselves,  except  for  the  presence  of  an  over 
seer  who  did  not  live  on  the  place.  The  condi 
tions  seemed  pregnant  of  many  things,  but  a 
calm  fell  on  the  place  as  if  every  one  had  de 
cided  to  be  particularly  upon  his  good  behavior. 
The  piccaninnies  were  subdued.  The  butlers  in 
the  big  house  bowed  with  wonderful  deference  to 
the  maids  as  they  passed  them  in  the  halls,  and 
the  maids  called  the  butlers  "mister"  when  they 
spoke  to  them.  Only  now  and  again  from  the 
fields  could  a  song  be  heard.  All  this  was 
ominous. 

By  the  time  that  night  came  many  things  were 
changed.  The  hilarity  of  the  little  darkies  had 
grown,  and  although  the  house  servants  still  re 
mained  gravely  quiet,  on  the  return  of  the  field 
hands  the  quarters  became  frankly  joyous.  From 
one  cabin  to  another  could  be  heard  the  sound  of 

72 


A  Supper  by  Proxy 

ujuba,  Juba  1"  and  the  loud  patting  of  hands  and 
the  shuffling  of  feet.  Now  and  again  some  voice 
could  be  heard  rising  above  the  rest,  improvising 
a  verse  of  the  song,  as : 

"Mas'    done    gone    to    Philamundelphy,    Juba, 

Juba. 

Lef'  us  bacon,  lef  us  co'n  braid,  Juba,  Juba. 
Oh,  Juba  dis  an'  Juba  dat,  an'  Juba  skinned  de 

yaller  cat 
To  mek  his  wife  a  Sunday  hat,  Oh,  Juba !" 

Not  long  did  the  sounds  continue  to  issue  from 
isolated  points.  The  people  began  drifting  to 
gether,  and  when  a  goodly  number  had  gathered 
at  a  large  cabin,  the  inevitable  thing  happened. 
Some  one  brought  out  a  banjo  and  a  dance  fol 
lowed. 

Meanwhile,  from  the  vantage  ground  of  the 
big  house,  the  more  favored  servants  looked  dis 
dainfully  on,  and  at  the  same  time  consulted  to 
gether.  That  they  should  do  something  to  enter 
tain  themselves  was  only  right  and  proper.  No 
one  of  ordinary  intelligence  could  think  for  a  mo 
ment  of  letting  this  opportunity  slip  without  tak 
ing  advantage  of  it.  But  a  dance  such  as  the 
quarters  had !  Bah !  They  could  never  think  of 

73 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

it.  That  rude,  informal  affair !  And  these  black 
aristocrats  turned  up  their  noses.  No,  theirs 
must  be  a  grave  and  dignified  affair,  such  as  their 
master  himself  would  have  given,  and  they 
would  send  out  invitations  to  some  on  the  neigh 
boring  plantations. 

It  was  Julius,  the  coachman,  who,  after  win 
ning  around  the  head  butler,  Anderson,  insisted 
that  they  ought  to  give  a  grand  supper.  Julius 
would  have  gone  on  without  the  butler's  consent 
had  it  not  been  that  Anderson  carried  the  keys. 
So  the  matter  was  canvassed  and  settled. 

The  next  business  was  the  invitations,  but  no 
one  could  write.  Still,  this  was  a  slight  matter; 
for  neatly  folded  envelopes  were  carried  about  to 
the  different  favored  ones,  containing — nothing, 
while  at  the  same  time  the  invitations  were  prof 
fered  by  word  of  mouth. 

"Hi,  dah !"  cried  Jim  to  Julius  on  the  evening 
that  the  cards  had  been  distributed;  "I  ain't  seed 
my  imbitation  yit." 

"You  needn't  keep  yo'  eyes  bucked  looking  fu' 
none,  neithah,"  replied  Julius. 

"Uh,  puttin'  on  airs,  is  you?" 

"I  don't  caih  to  convuss  wid  you  jest  now," 
said  Julius  pompously. 

74 


A  Supper  by  Proxy 

Jim  guffawed.  "Well,  of  all  de  sights  I  evah 
seed,  a  dahky  coachman  offen  de  box  tryin'  to 
look  lak  he  on  it!  Go  'long,  Julius,  er  you'll 
sholy  kill  me,  man." 

The  coachman  strode  on  with  angry  dignity. 

It  had  been  announced  that  the  supper  was  to 
be  a  "ladies'  an'  gent'men's  pahty,"  and  so  but 
few  from  the  quarters  were  asked.  The  quarters 
were  naturally  angry  and  a  bit  envious,  for  they 
were  but  human  and  not  yet  intelligent  enough 
to  recognize  the  vast  social  gulf  that  yawned  be 
tween  the  blacks  at  the  "big  house"  and  the 
blacks  who  were  quartered  in  the  cabins. 

The  night  of  the  grand  affair  arrived,  and  the 
Mordaunt  mansion  was  as  resplendent  as  it  had 
ever  been  for  one  of  the  master's  festivities.  The 
drawing-rooms  were  gayly  festooned,  and  the 
long  dining-room  was  a  blaze  of  light  from  the 
wax  candles  that  shone  on  the  glory  of  the  Mor 
daunt  plate.  Nothing  but  the  best  had  satisfied 
Julius  and  Anderson.  By  nine  o'clock  the  outside 
guests  began  to  arrive.  They  were  the  dark  aris 
tocrats  of  the  region.  It  was  a  well-dressed  as 
sembly,  too.  Plump  brown  arms  lay  against  the 
dainty  folds  of  gleaming  muslin,  and  white- 
stocked,  brass-buttoned  black  counterparts  of 

75 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

their  masters  strode  up  the  walks.  There  were 
Dudley  Stone's  Gideon  and  Martha,  Robert  Cur 
tis'  Ike  with  Dely,  and  there  were  Quinn,  and 
Doshy,  and,  over  them  all,  Aunt  Tempe  to  keep 
them  straight.  Of  these  was  the  company  that 
sat  down  to  Stuart  Mordaunt's  board. 

After  some  rivalry,  Anderson  held  the  head  of 
the  table,  while  Julius  was  appeased  by  being 
placed  on  the  right  beside  his  favorite  lady. 
Aunt  Tempe  was  opposite  the  host  where  she 
could  reprove  any  unseemly  levity  or  tendency  to 
skylarking  on  the  part  of  the  young  people.  No 
state  dinner  ever  began  with  more  dignity.  The 
conversation  was  nothing  less  than  stately,  and 
everybody  bowed  to  everybody  else  every  time 
they  thought  about  it.  This  condition  of  affairs 
obtained  through  the  soup.  Somebody  ventured 
a  joke  and  there  was  even  a  light  laugh  during 
the  fish.  By  the  advent  of  the  entree  the  tongues 
of  the  assembly  had  loosened  up,  and  their  laugh 
ter  had  melted  and  flowed  as  freely  as  Stuart 
Mordaunt's  wine. 

"Well,  I  mus  say,  Mistah  An'erson,  dis  is 
sholy  a  mos'  salub'ious  occasion." 

"Thank  you,  Mistah  Cu'tis,  thank  you;  it 
ah  allus  my  endeavoh  to  mek  my  gues'es  feel  dey- 

76 


A  Supper  by  Proxy 

se'ves  at  home.     Let  me  give  you  some  mo'  of 
dis  wine.     It's  f'om  de  bes'  dat's  in  my  cellah." 

"Seems  lak  I  remembah  de  vintage,"  said  Ike, 
sipping  slowly  and  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur. 

uOh,  yes,  you  drinked  some  o'  dis  on  de  'ca- 
sion  of  my  darter's  ma'ige  to  Mas' — to  Mistah 
Daniels." 

"I  ricollec',  yes,  I  ricollec'." 

"Des  lis'en  at  dem  dahkies,"  said  the  voice  of 
a  listening  field  hand. 

Gideon,  as  was  his  wont,  was  saying  deeply 
serious  things  to  Martha,  and  Quinn  whispered 
something  in  Doshy's  ear  that  made  her  giggle 
hysterically  and  cry:  "Now,  Mr.  Quinn,  ain't 
you  scan'lous?  You  des  seem  lak  you  possessed 
dis  evenin'." 

In  due  time,  however,  the  ladies  withdrew,  anc 
the  gentlemen  were  left  over  their  cigars  and 
cognac.  It  was  then  that  one  of  the  boys  detailed 
to  wait  on  the  table  came  in  and  announced  to  the 
host  that  a  tramp  was  without  begging  for  some 
thing  to  eat.  At  the  same  instant  the  straggler's 
face  appeared  at  the  door,  a  poor,  unkempt-look 
ing  white  fellow  with  a  very  dirty  face.  Ander 
son  cast  a  look  over  his  shoulder  at  him  and  com 
manded  pompously : 

77 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Tek  him  to  de  kitchen  an'  give  him  all  he 
wants/* 

The  fellow  went  away  very  humbly. 

In  a  few  minutes  Aunt  Tempe  opened  the  din 
ing-room  door  and  came  in. 

"An'erson,"  she  cried  in  a  whisper. 

"Madam,"  said  the  butler  rising  in  dignity, 
"excuse  me — but " 

"Hyeah,  don't  you  come  no  foo'ishness  wid 
me;  I  ain't  no  madam.  I's  tiahed  playing  fine 
lady.  I  done  been  out  to  de  kitchen,  an'  I  don' 
lak  dat  tramp's  face  an'  fo'm." 

"Well,  madam,"  said  Anderson  urbanely,  "we 
haven't  asked  you  to  ma'y  him." 

At  this  there  was  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the 
table. 

"Nemmine,  nemmine,  I  tell  you,  I  don'  lak 
dat  tramp's  face  an'  fo'm,  an'  you'd  bettah  keep 
yo'  eye  skinned,  er  you'll  be  laughin'  on  de  othah 
side  o'  yo'  mouf." 

The  butler  gently  pushed  the  old  lady  out,  but 
as  the  door  closed  behind  her  she  was  still  saying, 
"I  don'  lak  dat  tramp's  face  an'  fo'm." 

Unused  to  playing  fine  lady  so  long,  Aunt 
Tempe  deserted  her  charges  and  went  back  to 
the  kitchen,  but  the  "straggler  man"  had  gone. 

78 


A  Supper  by  Proxy 

It  is  a  good  thing  she  did  not  go  around  the 
veranda,  where  the  windows  of  the  dining-roorn 
opened,  or  she  would  have  been  considerably  dis 
turbed  to  see  the  tramp  peeping  through  the 
blinds — evidently  at  the  Mordaunt  plate  that 
sparkled  conspicuously  on  the  table. 

Anderson  with  his  hand  in  his  coat,  quite  after 
the  manner  of  Stuart  Mordaunt,  made  a  brief 
speech  in  \vhich  he  thanked  his  guests  for  the 
honor  they  had  done  him  in  coming  to  his  humble 
home.  "I  know,"  he  said,  "I  have  done  my  po' 
bes' ;  but  at  some  latah  day  I  hopes  to  entertain 
you  in  a  mannah  dat  de  position  an'  character  of 
de  gent'men  hyeah  assembled  desuves.  Let  us 
now  jine  de  ladies." 

His  hand  was  on  the  door  and  all  the  gentle 
men  were  on  their  feet  when  suddenly  the  win 
dow  was  thrown  up  and  in  stepped  the  straggler. 

"W'y,  w'y,  how  daih  you,  suh,  invade  my 
p'emises?"  asked  Anderson,  casting  a  withering 
glance  at  the  intruder,  who  stood  gazing  around 
him. 

"Leave  de  room  dis  minute!"  cried  Julius, 
anxious  to  be  in  the  fray.  But  the  tramp's  eyes 
were  fastened  on  Anderson.  Finally  he  raised 
one  finger  and  pointed  at  him. 

79 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"You  old  scoundrel,"  he  said  in  a  well-known 
voice,  as  he  snatched  off  his  beard  and  wig  and 
threw  aside  his  disguising  duster  and  stood  before 
them. 

"Mas' Stu'at!" 

"You  old  scoundrel,  you!  I've  caught  you, 
have  I?" 

Anderson  was  speechless  and  transfixed,  but 
the  others  were  not,  and  they  had  cleared  that 
room  before  the  master's  linen  duster  was  well 
off.  In  a  moment  the  shuffling  of  feet  ceased  and 
the  lights  went  out  in  the  parlor.  The  two  stood 
there  alone,  facing  each  other. 

"Mas1  Stu'at." 

"Silence,"  said  Mordaunt,  raising  his  hand, 
and  taking  a  step  toward  the  trembling  culprit. 

"Don'  hit  me  now,  Mas'  Stu'at,  don'  hit  me 
ontwell  I's  kin'  o'  shuk  off  yo'  pussonality.  Ef 
you  do,  it'll  be  des'  de  same  ez  thumpin  yo'se'f." 

Mordaunt  turned  quickly  and  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  looking  through  the  window,  but  his  shoul 
ders  shook. 

"Well,"  he  said,  turning;  "do  you  think  you've 
at  last  relieved  yourself  of  my  personality?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  De  gyahment 
sho'  do  fit  monst'ous  tight." 

80 


"    *  YOU  OLD    SCOUNDREL,'    SAID  A   xVKLL    KXOWN  VOICE  "     ' 


A  Supper  by  Proxy 

"Humph.  You  take  my  food,  you  take  my 
wine,  you  take  my  cigars,  and  now  even  my  per 
sonality  isn't  safe. 

"Look  here,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  en 
tertaining  half  the  darkies  in  the  county  in  my 
dining-room?" 

Anderson  scratched  his  head  and  thought. 
Then  he  said:  "Well,  look  hyeah,  Mas'  Stu'at 
dis  hyeah  wasn't  rightly  my  suppah  noways." 

"Not  your  supper!    Whose  was  it!" 

"Yo'n." 

"Mine?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Anderson? 
Next  thing  you'll  be  telling  me  that  I  planned  it 
all,  and  invited  all  those  servants." 

"Lemme  'splain  it,  Mas',  lemme  'splain  it. 
Now  I  didn't  give  dat  suppah  as  An'erson.  I  give 
it  ez  Mas'  Stu'at  Mordaunt;  an'  Quinn  an'  Ike 
an'  Gidjon,  dey  didn't  come  fu'  deyse'ves,  dey 
come  fu'  Mas'  Cu'tis,  an'  Mas'  Dudley  Stone. 
Don'  you  un'erstan',  Mas'  Stu'at?  We  wasn' 
we-all,  we  was  you-all." 

"That's  very  plain ;  and  in  other  words,  I  gave 
a  supper  by  proxy,  and  all  my  friends  responded 
in  the  same  manner?" 

81 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Well,  ef  dat  means  what  I  said,  dat's  it." 

"Your  reasoning  is  extremely  profound,  An 
derson.  It  does  you  great  credit,  but  if  I  followed 
your  plan  I  should  give  you  the  thrashing  you 
deserve  by  proxy.  That  would  just  suit  you.  So 
instead  of  that  I  am  going  to  feed  you,  for  the 
next  day  or  so,  by  that  ingenious  method.  You 
go  down  and  tell  Jim  that  I  want  him  up  here 
early  to-morrow  morning  to  eat  your  breakfast." 

"Oh,  Mas'  Stu'at!  Whup  me,  whup  me,  but 
don't  tell  dose  dahkies  in  de  quahtahs,  an'  don't 
sta've  me !"  For  Anderson  loved  the  good 
things  of  life. 

"Go." 

Anderson  went,  and  Mordaunt  gave  himself 
up  to  mirth. 

The  quarters  got  their  laugh  out  of  Ander 
son's  discomfiture.  Jim  lived  high  for  a  day. 
but  rumors  from  the  kitchen  say  that  the  butler 
did  not  really  suffer  on  account  of  his  supper  by 
proxy. 


THE  TROUBLE  ABOUT  SOPHINY. 

Always  on  the  plantation  there  had  been 
rivalry  between  Julius,  the  coachman,  and  An 
derson,  the  butler,  for  social  leadership.  Mostly 
it  had  been  good-natured,  with  now  and  then  a 
somewhat  sharper  contest  when  occasion  de 
manded  it.  Mostly,  too,  Anderson  had  come  off 
victorious  on  account  of  certain  emoluments,  hon 
estly  or  dishonestly  come  by,  that  followed  his 
position.  Now,  however,  they  were  at  logger 
heads  and  there  seemed  no  possible  way  to  settle 
the  matter  in  the  usual  amicable  manner.  An 
derson  swore  dire  things  against  Julius,  and  the 
latter  would  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than 
his  enemy's  destruction.  There  was  no  use  in 
the  peacemakers  on  the  plantation  trying  to  bring 
them  together.  They  were  sworn  enemies  and 
would  have  none  of  it.  In  fact,  there  was  no 
way  to  adjudicate  the  affair,  for  it  concerned  no 
less  a  matter  than  who  should  have  the  right  to 
take  Miss  Sophiny  to  the  great  ball  that  was  to 
be  given  in  her  honor. 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  Miss  Sophiny 
was  maid  to  Mistress  Fairfax,  who  was  now  on 

83 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

a  visit  to  the  Mordaunt  plantation,  and  in  the 
whole  State  the  prettiest  girl,  black,  brown,  or 
yellow  that  had  ever  tossed  her  head,  imitated 
her  mistress  and  set  her  admirers  wild.  She  was 
that  entrancing  color  between  brown  and  yellow 
which  is  light  brown  if  you  are  pleasant  and 
gingerbread  if  you  want  to  hurt  a  body's  feel 
ings.  Also,  Sophiny  had  lustrous,  big  black  eyes 
that  had  learned  from  her  mistress  the  trick  of 
being  tender  or  languishing  at  their  owner's  will. 

Mistress  Fairfax  and  her  maid  had  not  been 
on  the  grounds  a  day  before  they  had  disrupted 
the  whole  plantation. 

From  the  very  first,  Julius  had  paid  the  brown 
damsel  devoted  court.  In  fact,  as  the  coachman, 
he  had  driven  up  from  the  station  with  her  mis 
tress  and  had  the  first  chance  to  show  her  his 
gallantry.  It  is  true  that  Anderson  came  into 
the  lists  immediately  after,  and  found  a  dainty 
for  her  even  before  he  had  served  her  mistress, 
but  it  could  not  be  denied  that  he  was  after 
Julius,  and  it  was  upon  his  priority  of  attention 
that  the  coachman  based  his  claim  to  present 
precedence. 

For  days  the  contest  between  the  two  men  was 
pretty  balanced.  Julius  walked  down  the  quar- 

84 


The  Trouble  About  Sophiny 

ters'  road  with  her,  but  Anderson  stood  talking 
with  her  on  the  back  veranda  for  nearly  an 
hour.  She  went  to  the  stables  with  the  coach 
man  to  look  over  the  horses,  in  which  he  took  a 
special  pride;  but  she  dropped  into  the  butler's 
pantry  to  try  his  latest  confection.  She  laughed 
at  a  joke  by  Julius,  but  said  "You're  right"  to  a 
wise  remark  that  Anderson  made.  Altogether, 
their  honors  seemed  dangerously  even. 

Then  the  big  house  gave  the  grand  ball  for 
Mistress  Fairfax,  and  the  servants'  quarters 
could  hardly  wait  to  follow  their  example  in  giv 
ing  something  for  the  maid.  It  was  here  that 
the  trouble  arose.  Their  ball  was  to  be  a  great 
affair.  It  was  to  be  given  in  the  largest  of  the 
cabins,  and  field  and  house  were  to  unite  to  do 
honor  to  the  fair  one.  But  the  question  was: 
Who  was  to  have  the  honor  of  escorting  her  to 
the  ball? 

Now  it  might  be  supposed  that  under  ordinary 
circumstances  such  a  matter  would  be  left  to  the 
personal  preference  of  the  lady  most  concerned; 
but  that  is  just  where  the  observer  makes  his  first 
mistake.  His  premise  is  wrong.  This  was  no 
ordinary  matter.  Had  the  lady  shown  any  de 
cided  preference  for  either  one  or  the  other  of 

85 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

her  suitors;  had  either  even  the  shade  of  a  hair 
an  advantage  over  the  other,  it  would  all  have 
been  different.  It  would  have  resolved  itself 
merely  into  a  trial  of  personal  influence  and  the 
vanquished  would  have  laughed  with  his  victor. 
But  it  was  not  so.  Miss  Sophiny  had  treated 
them  both  painfully  alike.  The  one  who  took 
the  lady  would  gain  a  distinct  advantage  over 
his  fellow,  and  this  must  not  be  left  to  chance. 
They  must  settle  outside  their  charmer's  knowl 
edge  once  and  for  all  as  to  which  should  ask  and, 
as  a  consequence,  be  her  escort. 

Now  it  was  at  this  time  that  the  mirth-loving 
master,  Stuart  Mordaunt,  took  note  of  the  affair. 
He  saw  that  there  was  bad  feeling  between  his 
butler  and  his  coachman,  and  he  was  not  long  in 
finding  out  the  cause  thereof.  There  were  many 
with  the  story  waiting  on  their  lips  and  anxious 
to  tell  him.  The  little  tale  filled  Mordaunt  with 
mischievous  joy.  He  hurried  to  the  house  with 
the  news  that  there  was  trouble  on  the  planta 
tion. 

"Look  a-here,  Miss  Caroline,"  he  said  to  his 
visitor,  "I  had  no  idea  your  coming  was  going 
to  cause  such  a  commotion  on  my  place.  Why,  1 
really  believe  that  I'm  threatened  with  an  upris- 


The  Trouble  About  Sophiny 

ing,  and  all  about  that  maid  of  yours.  It's  really 
doubtful  whether  we  shall  be  able  to  drive  any 
where,  and  I  am  beginning  to  tremble  for  the 
serving  of  my  meals,  for  all  the  trouble  seems  to 
center  in  my  coachman  and  my  butler." 

"Now,  tell  me,  Mr.  Stuart,  what  has  that  girl 
been  doing  now?  Honestly,  she's  the  plague  of 
my  life." 

"Oh,  no  more  than  her  mistress  did  last  win 
ter  down  at  the  capitol.  It's  really  remarkable 
what  a  lot  of  human  nature  horses  and  niggers 
have." 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt?  Pray,  what  did  I  do  last  winter  at  the 
capitol?" 

"The  whole  case  is  as  bad  as  it  was  between 
Captain  Carter  and  Willis  Breckinridge,  and 
I'm  expecting  the  affair  of  honor  between  Julius 
and  Anderson  at  any  time.  If  you  hear  the  sud 
den  report  of  pistols  you  may  all  just  know  what 
it  is  and  thank  your  maid  Sophiny  for  bringing 
it  about." 

Miss  Caroline  laughed  heartily  at  her  host's 
bantering,  but  he  went  on  in  a  tone  of  mock 
seriousness,  "You  may  laugh,  now,  my  lady,  but 
I'll  warrant  you'll  sing  another  tune  if  you  have 

87 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

to  go  walking  about  this  place  or  perchance  have 
to  set  to  work  some  of  you  and  get  your  own 
dinners;  and  that's  what  it  will  come  to  if  this 
matter  goes  on  much  longer." 

The  rivalry  between  the  two  servants  had  now 
run  its  course  for  some  time,  and  as  neither  man 
seemed  disposed  to  yield,  it  threatened  to  ruin 
the  whole  entertainment,  which  had  been  post 
poned  from  time  to  time  to  allow  of  an  adjust 
ment  of  the  matter.  Finally,  when  that  night  of 
pleasure  was  too  visibly  menaced,  Jim,  the  un- 
regenerate,  came  forward  with  a  solution  of  the 
problem.  "Why,"  he  argued,  "should  Julius 
and  Anderson  be  allowed  to  spoil  the  good  time 
of  the  whole  plantation  by  their  personal  dis 
agreements  and  bickerings  ?  What  was  it  to  the 
rest  of  them,  who  took  Miss  Sophiny,  so  she 
came  and  they  had  their  dance?  If  the  two  must 
differ,  why  not  differ  like  men  and  fight  it  out? 
Then,  the  one  that  whipped  had  the  right  to  take 
the  young  lady."  Jim  was  primitive.  He  was 
very  close  to  nature.  He  did  not  argue  it  out  in 
just  these  words,  but  his  fellows  took  his  mean 
ing,  and  they  said,  "That's  so." 

Now,  neither  Julius  nor  Anderson  much  fa 
vored  the  idea  of  fighting.  Each  wanted  to  save 


The  Trouble  About  Sophiny 

himself  and  look  his  best  on  the  momentous 
night.  But  the  fact  that  unless  the  matter  were 
soon  settled  there  would  be  no  such  night,  and 
because  the  force  of  opinion  all  around  pressed 
them,  they  accepted  Jim's  solution  of  the  prob 
lem  and  decided  to  fight  out  their  differences. 

Meanwhile  there  was  an  unholy  twinkle  in  the 
eye  of  Miss  Sophiny.  She  was  not  unmindful  of 
all  that  was  going  on,  but  she  kept  her  counsel. 

Neither  Julius  nor  his  fellow  servant  was  in 
particularly  good  fighting  trim.  One  had  been 
stiffened  by  long  hours,  both  in  winter  and  sum 
mer  upon  the  carriage.  The  other  had  been 
softened  by  being  much  in  the  house  and  by  over 
feeding.  But  as  their  disadvantages  were  equal 
these  could  not  justly  be  taken  into  account  and 
so  are  passed  over. 

As  the  plantation  was  manifesting  a  growing 
impatience  for  its  festivities  and  the  visitor's  stay 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  they  set  the  time  for  the 
encounter  on  the  night  after  the  matter  was  pro 
posed.  It  was  soon,  but  not  too  soon  for  some 
solicitous  one  to  inform  the  master  of  what  was 
going  on. 

The  place  chosen  was  one  remote  from  the  big 
house  and  behind  an  old  dismantled  smoke-house 

89 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

in  which  the  card  games  were  usually  played  of 
a  Sunday.  At  the  appointed  time,  the  few  who 
were  in  the  secret  gathered  and  formed  a  ring 
about  the  rivals,  who  faced  each  other  stripped 
to  the  waist.  There  was  not  a  great  show  of 
confidence  or  eagerness  in  their  bearing,  and 
there  would  have  been  less  could  they  have 
known  that  their  master  with  Miss  Caroline  and 
several  members  of  the  family  were  hiding  just 
around  the  corner  of  the  smoke-house,  convulsed 
with  laughter. 

The  two  men  were  a  funny  sight  as  they  stood 
there  in  the  ring  fearfully  facing  each  other. 
Julius  was  tall  and  raw-boned,  while  Anderson 
was  short  and  fat  from  much  feeding.  When  the 
preliminaries  were  all  arranged  the  fight  began 
without  further  ceremony.  Julius  led  with  a 
heavy  awkward  blow  that  caught  his  opponent 
just  above  where  the  belt  should  have  been,  and 
Anderson  grunted  with  a  sound  like  a  half-filled 
barrel.  This  was  enough.  The  blow  was  im 
mediately  returned  by  the  butler's  bending  his 
head  and  butting  his  rival  quickly  and  resound 
ingly.  Before  he  could  recover  his  upright  posi 
tion,  however,  the  tall  coachman  had  caught  him 
under  his  arm  and  was  trying  to  work  havoc  on 

90 


The  Trouble  About  Sophiny 

his  woolly  pate.  For  a  few  minutes  they  danced 
around  in  this  position,  for  all  the  world  like 
two  roosters  when  one  shields  his  head  under  the 
other's  wing. 

"Brek  aloose,"  cried  Jim,  excitedly,  "brek 
aloose,  dat  ain't  no  fist  fightin'." 

The  men  separated  and  began  to  pummel  each 
other  at  a  distance  and  in  good  earnest.  Ander 
son's  nose  was  bleeding,  and  Julius'  eye  was 
closed  to  earthly  scenes.  They  were  both  pant 
ing  like  engines. 

At  this  juncture,  thinking  it  had  gone  far 
enough,  Mordaunt,  with  much  ado  to  keep  his 
face  straight,  emerged  from  behind  the  smoke 
house.  At  first  the  combatants  did  not  see  him, 
so  busily  were  they  engaged,  but  the  sound  of 
scurrying  feet  as  their  spectators  fled  the  scene, 
called  them  to  themselves  and  they  turned  to 
meet  the  eyes  of  their  master  fixed  upon  them 
with  a  sternness  that  it  was  all  he  could  do  to 
maintain. 

"Well,  you  are  a  pretty  pair.  Here,  what  is 
the  meaning  of  this?" 

The  two  men  hung  their  heads.  A  giggle, 
pretty  well-defined,  came  from  behind  the  smoke 
house,  and  they  became  aware  that  their  master 

91 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

was  not  alone.     They  were  covered  with  con 
fusion. 

"Get  into  your  coats."  They  hustled  into  their 
garments.  "Now  tell  me  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this?" 

"We  was  des'  a  fightin'  a  little,"  said  Julius, 
sheepishly. 

"Just  for  fun,  I  suppose?" 

No  answers 

"I  say,  just  for  fun?" 

"Well,  I  seen  huh  fust,"  Julius  broke  out  like 
a  big  boy. 

"Don'  keer  ef  yo'  did,  I  did  mo'  talkin'  to 
huh,  an'  I  got  de  right  to  tek  huh  to  th'  pa'ty, 
dat's  what  I  have." 

"Well,  you're  a  pretty  pair,"  repeated  the 
master.  "Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that 
Sophiny  herself  might  have  something  to  say  as 
to  who  went  with  her?" 

"Well,  dat's  des'  what  I  say,  but  Julius  he 
want  to  ax  huh  fus'  an'  so  does  I." 

"Anderson,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Why  ain't 
you  got  sense  enough  to  go  together  and  ask  her, 
and  so  settle  the  matter  peacefully?  If  it  wasn't 
for  the  rest  of  the  hands  you  should  not  have  any 
dance  at  all.  Now  take  yourselves  to  the  house 

92 


The  Trouble  About  Sophiny 
and  don't  let  me  hear  any  more  of  this  busi 


ness." 


Mordaunt  turned  quickly  on  his  heel  as  the 
combatants  slipped  away.  His  gravity  had  stood 
all  that  it  could.  As  soon  as  he  had  joined  the 
others  he  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter  in  which 
Miss  Caroline  and  the  rest  joined  him. 

"Oh,  you  women,"  he  exclaimed,  "didn't  I 
warn  you  that  we  should  have  an  affair  of  honor 
on  our  hands?  It's  worse,  positively  worse  than 
Carter  and  Breckinridge." 

"Yes,  it  is  worse,"  assented  Miss  Caroline, 
mischievously,  "for  in  this  encounter  some  blood 
was  drawn,"  and  they  took  their  way  merrily  to 
the  house. 

Julius  and  Anderson  were  both  glad  of  the 
relief  that  their  master  had  brought  to  them  and 
of  the  expedient  he  had  urged  for  getting  around 
their  difficulty.  They  talked  amicably  of  the 
plan  as  they  pursued  their  way. 

"I'll  go  fix  my  eye  an'  yo'  ten'  to  yo'  nose,  an' 
den  we'll  go  an'  see  Miss  Sophiny  togethah  des' 
lak  Mas'  says." 

"All  right,  I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute." 

When  they  had  somewhat  repaired  the  dam 
age  to  their  countenances  the  coachman  and  the 

93 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

butler  together  set  out  to  find  the  object  of  their 
hearts'  desire.  Together,  each  one  fearing  to  let 
the  other  talk  too  much,  they  laid  their  case  be 
fore  her. 

Sophiny  sat  on  the  step  of  the  back  porch  and 
swung  one  slender  foot  temptingly  down  and  out 
ward.  She  listened  to  them  with  a  smile  on  her 
face.  When  they  were  through  she  laughed 
lightly  and  said,  "Why,  la,  gentlemen,  I  done 
promised  Mistah  Sam  long  'go.  He  axed  me 
soon's  he  hyeahed  'bout  it!"  Then  she  laughed 
again. 

Sam  was  a  big  field  hand  and  not  at  all  in  the 
coachman's  and  the  butler's  social  set.  They 
turned  away  from  the  siren  in  silence  and  when 
they  were  some  distance  off  they  solemnly  shook 
hands. 


94 


MR.  GROBY'S  SLIPPERY  GIFT. 

Two  men  could  hardly  have  been  more  unlike 
than  Jim  and  Joe  Mordaunt,  and  when  it  is 
considered  that  they  were  brothers  brought  up 
under  the  same  conditions  and  trained  by  the 
same  hand,  this  dissimilarity  seems  nothing  less 
than  remarkable.  Jim  was  the  older,  and  a 
better,  steadier-going  hand  Stuart  Mordaunt  did 
not  own  upon  the  place,  while  a  lazier,  more  un 
reliable  scamp  than  Joe  could  not  have  been 
found  within  a  radius  of  fifty  miles. 

The  former  was  the  leader  in  all  good  wrorks, 
while  the  latter  was  at  the  head  of  every  bit  of 
deviltry  that  harassed  the  plantation.  Every 
one  recognized  the  difference  between  these  two, 
and  they  themselves  did  not  ignore  it. 

"Jim,  he's  de  'ligious  pa't  o'  de  fambly,"  Joe 
used  to  say,  "an'  I's  most  o'  de  res'  o'  it."  He 
looked  upon  his  brother  with  a  sort  of  patroniz 
ing  condescension,  as  if  his  own  wickedness  in 
some  manner  dignified  him;  but  nevertheless,  the 
two  were  bound  together  by  a  rough  but  strong 
affection.  The  wicked  one  had  once  almost 
whipped  a  fellow-servant  to  death  for  saying 

95 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

that  his  brother  couldn't  out-pray  the  preachen 
They  were  both  field  hands,  and  while  Jim  went 
his  way  and  did  his  work  rejoicing,  Joe  was  the 
bane  of  the  overseer's  life.  He  would  seize  every 
possible  chance  of  shirking,  and  it  was  his  stand 
ing  boast  that  he  worked  less  and  ate  more  than 
any  other  man  on  the  place. 

It  was  especially  irritating  to  his  master,  be 
cause  he  was  a  fine-appearing  fellow,  with  arms 
like  steel  bars,  and  the  strength  of  a  giant.  It 
was  this  strength  and  a  certain  reckless  spirit 
about  him  that  kept  the  overseer  from  laying 
the  lash  to  his  back.  It  was  better  to  let  Joe 
shirk  than  to  make  him  desperate,  thought  Mr. 
Groby.  In  his  employer's  dilemma,  however,  he 
suggested  starvation  as  a  very  salutary  measure, 
but  was  met  with  such  an  angry  response  that  he 
immediately  apologized.  Stuart  Mordaunt, 
while  rejecting  his  employee's  methods,  yet 
looked  to  him  to  work  an  amendment  in  Joe's 
career.  "For,"  said  he,  uthat  rascal  will  corrupt 
the  whole  plantation.  Joe  literally  carries  out 
the  idea  that  he  doesn't  have  to  work,  and  is 
there  a  servant  on  the  place  who  will  work  if  he 
thinks  he  doesn't  have  to?" 

"Yes,  one — Joe's  brother  Jim,"  said  the  over- 
96 


Mr.  Groby's  Slippery  Gift 

seer,  grinning.  "He's  what  a  nigger  ought  to  be 
— as  steady  and  as  tireless  as  an  ox." 

"It's  a  wonder  that  brother  of  his  hasn't  cor 
rupted  him." 

"Jim  ain't  got  sense  enough  to  be  corrupted 
as  long  as  he  gets  his  feed." 

"Maybe  he's  got  too  much  sense,"  returned 
the  master  coldly.  "But  do  you  think  that  Joe 
really  has  notions?" 

"Notions  of  freedom?  No.  He's  like  a  balky 
horse.  He'll  stand  in  his  tracks  until  you  beat 
the  life  out  of  him,  but  he  isn't  the  kind  to  run 
away.  It  would  take  too  much  exertion." 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  he  would  run  off!"  said 
Mordaunt  impatiently.  "It  would  save  me  a 
deal  of  trouble.  I  don't  want  to  deal  harshly 
with  him,  but  neither  do  I  want  the  whole  planta 
tion  stirred  up." 

"Why  don't  you  sell  him?" 

Stuart  Mordaunt's  eyes  flashed  up  at  the  over 
seer  as  he  replied:  "I  haven't  got  down  to  sell 
ing  my  niggers  down  the  river  yet." 

"Needn't  sell  him  down  the  river.     Sell  him 


"I'm  no  nigger-trader,"  the  gentleman  broke 
in. 

97 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Groby,  insinuat 
ingly.  "My  wife  wants  a  good  servant  up  at 
our  house,  and  I'd  be  willing  to  take  Joe  off  your 
hands.  I  think  I  could  manage  him."  He 
looked  for  the  moment  as  if  he  might  manage 
the  slave  to  the  poor  fellow's  sorrow. 

"But  would  you  keep  him  right  about  here  so 
that  I  could  look  after  him  if  he  got  into  trou 
ble?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Groby,  jingling  the 
coins  in  his  pocket. 

"Then  I'll  give  him  to  you,"  said  Mordaunt 
coldly. 

"I  don't  ask  that;  I " 

"I  do  not  sell,  I  believe  I  told  you.  I'll  give 
him  to  you." 

The  overseer  laughed  quietly  when  his  em 
ployer  was  gone.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"I  think  I  can  manage  Joe  when  he's  mine." 

"I  don't  believe  I  ought  to  have  done  that," 
mused  the  master  as  he  went  his  way. 

Joe  did  not  know  what  had  happened  until 
the  papers  transferring  him  were  made  out  and 
Groby  came  and  read  them  to  him. 

"You  see,  Joe,"  he  said,  "you're  mine.  I've- 
wanted  you  for  a  long  time.  I've  always 


Mr.  Groby's  Slippery  Gift 

thought  that  if  you  belonged  to  me  I  could  make 
a  good  hand  out  of  you.  You  see,  Joe,  I've  got 
no  sentiments.  Of  course  you  don't  know  what 
sentiments  are,  but  you'll  understand  later.  I 
feel  as  if  I  can  increase  your  worth  to  the  world," 
and  Mr.  Groby  rubbed  his  hands  and  smiled. 

The  black  man  said  nothing,  but  at  night, 
humble  and  pleading,  he  went  to  see  his  old  mas 
ter.  When  Stuart  Mordaunt  saw  him  coming 
he  did  not  feel  altogether  easy  in  his  mind,  but 
he  tried  to  comfort  himself  by  affecting  to  believe 
that  Joe  would  be  pleased. 

"Well,  Joe,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  you'll  be  glad 
to  get  away  from  the  field?" 

"Glad  to  git  erway — oh,  mastah !"  He  sud 
denly  knelt  and  threw  his  arms  about  his  master's 
knees.  "Oh,  Mas'  Stua't,"  he  cried,  "don'  gi' 
me  to  dat  Mistah  Groby;  don'  do  it!  I  want  to 
wo'k  fu'  you  all  de  days  o'  my  life.  Don'  gi' 
me  to  dat  man!" 

"Why,  Joe,  you  never  have  been  anxious  be 
fore  to  work  for  me." 

"Mas'  Stua't,  I  knows  I  ain'  been  doin'  right. 
I  ain'  been  wo'kin',  but  I  will  \vo'k.  I'll  dig  my 
fingahs  to  de  bone ;  but  don'  gi'  me  to  dat  man." 

99 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

'But,  Joe,  you  don't  understand.  You'll  have 
a  good  home,  easier  work,  and  more  time  to 
yourself — almost  the  same  as  if  you  were  up  to 
the  big  house." 

This  was  every  field-hand's  ambition,  and 
Stuart  Mordaunt  thought  that  his  argument 
would  silence  the  refractory  servant,  but  Joe  was 
not  to  be  silenced  so.  He  raised  his  head  and 
his  black  face  was  twitching  with  emotion.  "I'd 
rawer  be  yo'  fiel'-han'  dan  dat  man  Groby's 
mastah." 

Mordaunt  was  touched,  but  his  determination 
was  not  altered.  "But  he'll  be  good  to  you,  don't 
you  know  that?" 

"Good  to  me,  good  to  me !  Mas'  Stua't,  you 
don'  know  dat  man!" 

The  master  turned  away.  He  had  a  certain 
discipline  to  keep  on  his  place,  and  he  knew  it. 
"Perhaps  I  don't  know  him,"  he  said,  "but  what 
I  don't  see  with  my  own  eyes  I  can't  spy  out  with 
the  eyes  of  my  servants.  Joe,  you  may  go.  I 
have  given  my  word,  and  I  could  not  go  back 
even  if  I  would.  Be  a  good  boy  and  you'll  get 
along  all  right.  Come  to  see  me  often." 

The  black  man  seized  his  master's  hand  and 
pressed  it.  Great  fellow  as  he  was,  when  he 

100 


Mr.  Groby's  Slippery  Gift 

left  he  was  sobbing  like  a  child.  He  was  to  stay 
in  the  quarters  that  night  and  the  next  morning 
leave  the  fields  and  enter  the  service  of  Mrs. 
Groby. 

It  was  a  sad  time  for  him.  As  he  sat  by  the 
hearth,  his  face  bowed  in  his  hands,  Jim  reached 
over  and  slapped  him  on  the  head.  It  was  as 
near  to  an  expression  of  affection  and  sympathy 
as  he  could  come.  But  his  brother  looked  up 
with  the  tears  shining  in  his  eyes,  and  Jim,  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  passed  it  over  in  silence, 
and  they  sat  brooding  until  Mely  took  a  piece  of 
"middlin'  "  off  the  coals  for  brother  Joe. 

When  she  had  gone  to  bed  the  two  men  talked 
long,  but  it  was  not  until  she  was  snoring  con 
tentedly  and  the  dogs  were  howling  in  the  yard 
and  the  moon  had  gone  down  behind  the  trees 
that  Mr.  Groby's  acquisition  slipped  out  of  the 
cabin  and  away  to  the  woods,  bearing  with  him 
his  brother's  blessing  and  breakfast. 

It  was  near  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning 
when  the  overseer  came  to  the  big  house,  fuming 
and  waving  his  papers  in  his  hands.  He  was 
looking  for  his  slave.  But  the  big  house  did  not 
know  where  he  was  any  more  than  did  the  quar 
ters,  and  he  went  away  disappointed  and  furious. 

101 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Joe  had  rebelled.  He  had  called  the  dark 
night  to  his  aid  and  it  had  swallowed  him  up. 

Against  Mordaunt's  remonstrances,  the  new- 
made  master  insisted  upon  putting  the  hounds 
on  the  negro's  track;  but  they  came  back  baffled. 
Joe  knew  Mr.  Groby's  methods  and  had  pre 
pared  for  them. 

"It  was  a  slippery  gift  you  gave  me,  Mr. 
Mordaunt,"  said  the  overseer  on  the  third  day 
after  Joe's  escape. 

"Even  a  slippery  gift  shouldn't  get  out  of 
rough  hands,  Groby,"  answered  Mordaunt,  "and 
from  what  I  hear  your  hands  are  rough  enough." 

"And  they'd  be  rougher  now  if  I  had  that 
black  whelp  here." 

"I'm  glad  Joe's  gone,"  mused  Stuart  Mor 
daunt  as  he  looked  at  the  overseer's  retreating 

figure.     "He  was  lazy  and  devilish,  but  Groby 
»» 

It  was  just  after  that  that  Parker,  the  planta 
tion  exhorter,  reported  the  backsliding  of  Jim. 
His  first  fall  from  grace  consisted  in  his  going  to 
a  dance.  This  was  bad  enough,  but  what  was 
worse,  although  the  festivities  closed  at  mid 
night,  Jim — and  his  wife  Mely  told  it,  too — did 
not  reach  his  cabin  until  nearly  daylight.  Of 

102 


Mr.  Groby's  Slippery  Gift 

course  she  was  uneasy  about  it.  That  was  quite 
natural.  There  were  so  many  dashing  girls  on 
the  plantations,  within  a  radius  of  ten  or  twelve 
miles,  that  no  woman's  husband  was  safe.  So 
she  went  to  the  minister  about  it,  as  women  will 
about  their  troubles,  and  the  minister  went  to  his 
master. 

"Let  him  alone,"  said  Stuart  Mordaunt.  "His 
brother's  absence  has  upset  him,  but  Jim'll  come 
round  all  right." 

"But,  mastah,"  said  old  Parker,  pushing  back 
his  bone-bowed  spectacles,  "dat  uz  mighty  late 
fu'  Jim  to  be  gittin'  in — nigh  daylight — ez  stiddy 
a  man  ez  he  is.  Don't  you  reckon  dey's  a  'ooman 
in  it?" 

"Look  here,  Parker,"  said  his  master;  "aren't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself?  Have  you  ever  known 
Jim  to  go  with  any  other  woman  than  Mely  ?  If 
you  preachers  weren't  such  rascals  yourselves  and 
married  less  frequently  you  wouldn't  be  so  ready 
to  suspect  other  men." 

"Ahem!"  coughed  Parker.  "Well,  Mas' 
Stua't,  ef  you  gwineter  question  inter  de  p'oga- 
tives  o'  de  ministry,  I'd  bettah  be  gwine,  case 
you  on  dang'ous  groun',"  and  he  went  his  way. 

103 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

But  even  an  indulgent  master's  patience  must 
wear  out  when  a  usually  good  servant  lapses  into 
unusually  bad  habits.  Jim  was  often  absent 
from  the  plantation  now,  and  things  began  to 
disappear :  chickens,  ducks,  geese,  and  even  Jim's 
own  family  bacon,  and  now  and  then  a  shoat  of 
the  master's  found  its  way  off  the  place. 

The  thefts  could  be  traced  to  but  one  source. 
Mely  didn't  mind  the  shoats,  nor  the  ducks,  nor 
the  geese,  nor  the  chickens — they  were  her  mas 
ter's,  and  he  could  afford  to  lose  them — but  that 
her  husband  should  steal  hers  and  the  children's 
food — it  was  unspeakable.  She  caught  him  red- 
handed  once,  stealing  away  with  a  side  of  bacon, 
and  she  upbraided  him  loud  and  long. 

"Oh,  you  low-down  scoun'el,"  she  screamed, 
"stealin'  de  braid  outen  yo'  chillun's  moufs  fu' 
some  othah  'ooman !" 

Jim,  a  man  of  few  words,  stood  silent  and 
abashed,  and  his  very  silence  drove  her  to  des 
peration.  She  went  to  her  master,  and  the  next 
day  the  culprit  was  called  up. 

"Jim,"  said  Mordaunt,  "I  want  to  be  as  easy 
with  you  as  I  can.  You've  always  been  a  good 
servant,  and  I  believe  that  it's  your  brother's 
doings  that  have  got  you  off  the  handle.  But 

104 


Mr.  Groby's  Slippery  Gift 

I've  borne  with  you  week  after  week,  and  I  can't 
stand  it  any  longer.  So  mark  my  words:  if  I 
hear  another  complaint  I'll  have  you  skinned; 
do  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

That  night  Jim  stole  a  ham  from  the  kitchen 
before  Aunt  Doshy's  very  eyes.  When  they  told 
the  master  in  the  morning  he  was  furious.  He 
ordered  that  the  thief  be  brought  before  him, 
and  two  whippers  with  stout  corded  lashes  in 
their  hands  stood  over  the  black  man's  back. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyhow?" 
roared  Mordaunt.  "Are  you  bound  to  defy  me?" 

Jim  did  not  answer. 

"Will  you  answer  me?"  cried  the  master. 

Still  Jim  was  silent. 

"Who  is  this  woman  you're  stealing  for?" 

"Ain't  stealin'  fu'  no  ooman." 

"Don't  lie  to  me.     Will  you  tell  ?" 

Silence. 

"Do  you  hear  me?  Lay  it  on  him!  I'll  see 
whether  he'll  talk!" 

The  lashes  rose  in  the  air  and  whizzed  down. 
They  rose  again,  but  stopped  poised  as  a  gaunt 
figure  coming  from  nowhere,  it  seemed,  stalked 
up  and  pushed  the  whippers  aside. 

105 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Give  it  to  me,"  said  Joe,  taking  off  his  coat. 
"I  told  him  jes'  how  it  would  be,  an'  I  was  comin' 
in  to  gi'  myse'f  up  anyhow.  He  done  it  all  to 
keep  me  fom  sta'vin';  but  I's  done  hidin'  now. 
I'll  be  dat  Groby's  slave  rawer  dan  let  him  tek 
my  blows."  He  ceased  speaking  and  slipped 
out  of  his  ragged  shirt.  "  'Tain't  no  use,  Jim," 
he  added,  "you's  done  all  you  could." 

"Dah,  now,  Joe,"  said  his  brother  in  disgust, 
"you's  done  come  hyeah  an'  sp'iled  evaht'ing; 
you  nevah  did  know  yo'  place." 

"Whup  away,"  said  Joe. 

But  the  master's  hand  went  up. 

"Joe !"  he  cried.  "Jim,  you — youVe  been  tak 
ing  that  food  to  him !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?" 
He  kicked  each  one  of  the  whippers  solemnly, 
then  he  kicked  Joe.  "Get  out  of  this,"  he  said. 
"You'll  be  nobody's  but  mine.  I'll  buy  you  from 
Groby,  you  low-down,  no-account  scoundrel." 
Then  he  turned  and  looked  down  on  Jim.  "Oh, 
you  fool  nigger — God  bless  you." 

When  Mr.  Groby  heard  of  Joe's  return  he 
hastened  up  to  the  big  house.  He  was  elated. 

"Ha,"  he  said,  "my  man  has  returned." 

Stuart  Mordaunt  looked  unpleasant,  then  he 
said :  "Your  man,  Mr.  Groby,  your  man,  as  you 

106 


Mr.  Groby's  Slippery  Gift 

call  him,  has  returned.  He  is  here.  But,  sir, 
your  man  has  been  redeemed  by  his  brother's 
vicarious  suffering,  and  I  intend — I  intend  to 
buy  Joe  back.  Please  name  your  price." 

And  Mr.  Groby  saw  the  look  in  the  gentle 
man's  eye  and  made  his  price  low. 


107 


ASH-CAKE  HANNAH  AND  HER  BEN. 

Christmas  Eve  had  come,  and  the  cold,  keen 
air  with  just  a  hint  of  dampness  in  it  gave  prom 
ise  of  the  blessing  of  a  white  Christmas.  A  few 
flakes  began  sifting  slowly  down,  and  at  sight  of 
them  a  dozen  pairs  of  white  eyes  flashed,  and  a 
dozen  negro  hearts  beat  more  quickly.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  sound  of  grinding  axes  was 
heard  and  the  dogs  barked  a  chorus  to  the  grind 
stones'  song,  for  they,  wise  fellows  that  they 
were,  knew  what  the  bright  glint  of  the  steel 
meant.  They  knew,  too,  why  Jake  and  Ike  and 
Joe  whistled  so  merrily,  and  looked  over  at  the 
distant  woods  with  half-shut  eyes  and  smiled. 

Already  the  overseers  were  relaxing  their  vig 
ilance,  the  quarters  were  falling  into  indolence, 
and  the  master  was  guarding  the  key  of  a  well- 
filled  closet. 

Negro  Tom  was  tuning  up  his  fiddle  in  the 
barn,  and  Blophus,  with  his  banjo,  was  getting 
the  chords  from  him,  while  Alec  was  away  out  in 
the  woods  with  his  face  turned  up  to  the  gray 
sky,  letting  the  kinks  out  of  his  tenor  voice.  All 
this  because  the  night  was  coming  on.  Christmas 

108 


Ash-Cake  Hannah  and  Her  Ben 

Eve  night  was  the  beginning  of  a  week  of  joy. 
The  wind  freshened  and  the  snow  fell  faster. 
The  walks  were  covered.  Old  gnarled  logs  that 
had  lain  about,  black  and  forbidding,  became 
things  of  beauty.  The  world  was  a  white  glory. 
Slowly,  so  slowly  for  a  winter's  night,  the  lights 
faded  out  and  the  lamps  and  candles  and  torches 
like  lowly  stars  laughed  from  the  windows  of 
big  house  and  cabin.  In  fireplaces  great  and 
small  the  hickory  crackled,  and  the  savory  smell 
of  cooking  arose,  tempting,  persistent.  The 
lights  at  the  big  house  winked  at  the  cabin,  and 
the  cabin  windows  winked  back  again.  Laugh 
ter  trickled  down  the  night  and  good  cheer  was 
everywhere.  Everywhere,  save  in  one  room, 
where  Hannah — Ash-Cake  Hannah,  they  called 
her — sat  alone  by  her  smouldering  hearth,  brush 
ing  the  cinders  from  her  fresh-baked  cake,  mum 
bling  to  herself. 

For  her  there  was  no  Christmas  cheer.  There 
were  only  her  dim,  lonely  cabin  and  the  ash-cov 
ered  hearth.  While  the  others  rejoiced  she 
moaned,  for  she  had  taken  as  a  husband  a  slave 
on  a  distant  plantation,  whose  master  was  a  hard 
man,  and  on  many  a  Christmas  he  had  refused 
permission  to  Ben  to  go  and  see  his  wife.  So 
109 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

each  year,  as  soon  as  Christmas  Eve  came,  Han 
nah  began  to  mope  and  fast,  eating  nothing  but 
ash-cake  until  she  knew  whether  or  not  Ben  was 
coming.  If  he  came,  she  turned  to  and  laughed 
and  made  merry  with  the  rest.  If  he  did  not, 
her  sorrow  and  meagre  fare  lasted  the  week  out, 
and  she  went  back  to  her  work  with  a  heavy 
heart  and  no  store  of  brightness  for  the  coming 
year.  To-day  she  sat,  as  usual,  mumbling  and 
moaning,  for  the  night  was  drawing  down,  and 
no  sign  of  Ben. 

Outside  the  negroes  from  the  quarters,  dressed 
in  their  best,  were  gathering  into  line,  two  by 
two,  to  march  to  the  big  house,  where  every 
Christmas  they  received  their  presents.  There 
was  much  pushing  and  giggling,  with  ever  and 
anon  an  admonitory  word  from  one  of  the  older 
heads,  as  they  caught  some  fellow's  arm  making 
free  with  a  girl's  waist.  Finally,  when  darkness 
had  completely  come,  they  started  briskly  away 
to  the  tune  of  a  marching  song.  As  they  neared 
and  passed  Hannah's  cabin  they  lowered  their 
voices  out  of  respect  to  the  sorrow  they  knew  she 
was  undergoing.  But  once  beyond  it  they  broke 
out  with  fresh  gusto,  stamping  or  tripping  along 
through  the  damp  snow  like  so  many  happy  chil- 

110 


Ash-Cake  Hannah  and  Her  Ben 

dren.  Then,  as  they  neared  the  steps  of  the 
great  house,  the  doors  were  thrown  wide  and  a 
flood  of  yellow  light  flowed  out  upon  the  throng 
of  eager  faces.  With  their  halting  the  march 
ing  song  was  stopped,  and  instantly  a  mellow 
voice  swung  into  a  Christmas  hymn,  one  of  their 
own  rude  spirituals: 

Oh,  moughty  day  at  Bethlehem, 

Who  dat  layin'  in  de  manger? 

De  town,  hit  full,  dey  ain't  no  room; 

Who  dat  layin'  in  de  manger? 
The  old  master  had  come  forward  to  the  front 
of  the  piazza  and  around  him  clustered  his  fam 
ily  and  guests,  listening  with  admiration  to  the 
full,  rich  chorus.  When  it  was  done  the  negroes 
filed  through  the  hall,  one  by  one,  each  with  a 
"Me'y  Chris'mus"  and  each  receiving  some  to 
ken  from  the  master  and  mistress.  Laughing, 
joking,  bantering,  they  went  out  to  their  holi 
days,  some  to  their  cabins  to  dance  or  eat,  others 
to  the  woods  with  the  dogs  and  the  newly  sharp 
ened  axes  to  look  for  game.  One  of  the  women 
stopped  at  Hannah's  cabin  writh  the  gift  for 
which  she  so  seldom  came.  At  her  knock  the 
lone  watcher  sprang  up  and  flung  the  door  wide, 
but  sank  down  again  with  a  groan  at  sight  of  the 


in 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

visitor.  She  did  not  even  open  the  things  which 
the  messenger  laid  upon  the  bed,  but  bent  again 
over  her  cheerless  hearth. 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  song  were  dy 
ing  away  within  the  neighboring  huts  when  her 
door  was  thrown  suddenly  open  again  and  a 
huge  negro  stood  before  Ash-Cake  Hannah. 
The  slightly  nibbled  cake  was  hurled  into  a  dark 
corner,  and  the  woman  sprang  up  with  a  heart- 
cry  :  uBen !"  She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  burst  into  happy  tears,  while  Ben  held  her, 
grinned  sheepishly,  and  kept  glancing  furtively 
toward  the  door. 

"  'Sh,  'sh,"  he  said. 

"What  I  want  o'  'sh  fu',  w'en  you's  hyeah, 
Ben?  I  got  a  min'  to  hollah,"  she  answered, 
laughing  and  crying. 

"  'Sh,  'sh,"  he  repeated;  "I's  run  off." 

She  stopped,  and  stood  staring  at  him  with 
wide,  scared  eyes. 

"You's  run  off?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes,  Mas'  Mason  wouldn't  let  me  come,  so  I 
tuk  my  chanst  an'  come  anyhow." 

"Oh,  Ben,  he'll  mos'  nigh  kill  you." 

"I  knows  it,  but  I  don'  keer.  It  'uz  Chris'mus 
an'  I  was  boun'  to  see  you." 

112 


•'- 


Ash-Cake  Hannah  and  Her  Ben 

The  woman  fell  to  crying  again,  but  he  pat 
ted  her  shoulder,  saying:  "  'Tain't  no  use  to  cry, 
Hannah.  Hit's  des'  wastin'  time.  I  got  to  pay 
fu'  dis  runnin'  off  anyhow,  so  I'd  des'  ez  well 
have  ez  good  a  time  ez  I  kin  while  hit  las'.  Fix 
me  some  suppah,  an'  den  we'll  go  roun'  a  little 
an'  see  de  folks." 

As  they  went  out  the  deadened  sound  of  mer 
riment  came  to  them  from  the  cabins. 

"I  don'  know  ez  I  ought  to  show  myse'f  des' 
now,"  said  Ben  stealthily,  as  they  neared  one  of 
the  places  where  the  fun  was  at  its  height.  uEf 
I  should  tek  a  notion  to  go  back,  I  mought  git  in 
widout  Mas'  Mason  knowin'  I  been  gone, 
'dough  he  moughty  sha'p-eyed." 

uLe's  des  stan'  outside  hyeah,  den,  an,  hoi' 
han's  an'  listen;  dat'll  be  enough  fu'  me,  seein' 
you's  hyeah." 

They  stationed  themselves  outside  a  cabin  win 
dow  whose  shutter  was  thrown  wide  open  to  ad 
mit  the  air.  Here  they  could  see  and  listen  to 
all  that  went  on  within.  To  them  it  was  like 
starving  within  sight  of  food.  Their  hearts 
yearned  to  be  enjoying  themselves  with  their 
kind.  But  they  only  clutched  each  other's  hands 
the  tighter,  and  stood  there  in  the  square  of  yel- 
113 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

low  light  thrown  out  by  the  candles  and  fat  pine 
torches,  drinking  in  all  they  could  of  the  forbid 
den  pleasures. 

Now  they  were  dancing  to  the  tum-tum  of  a 
banjo  and  the  scraping  of  a  fiddle,  and  Ben's 
toes  tingled  to  be  shuffling.  After  the  dance 
there  would  be  a  supper.  Already  a  well-defined 
odor  was  arising  from  a  sort  of  rude  lean-to  be 
hind  the  cabin.  The  smell  was  rich  and  warm 
and  sweet. 

"What  is  dat,  Hannah?"  asked  Ben.  "Hit 
smell  monst'ous  familiah." 

"Hit's  sweet  'taters,  dat's  what  it  is." 

Ben  turned  on  her  an  agonized  look.    "Hit's 

sweet  'taters,  an'  p "    His  lips  were  pouted 

to  say  the  word,  but  it  was  too  much  for  him.  He 
interrupted  himself  in  an  attempt  to  pronounce 
that  juicy,  seductive,  unctuous  word,  "possum," 
and  started  for  the  door,  exclaiming:  "  Come 
on,  Hannah;  I'd  des'  ez  well  die  fu'  an  oF  sheep 
ez  fu'  a  lamb;"  and  in  a  moment  he  was  being 
welcomed  by  the  surprised  dancers. 

Ben  and  Hannah  were  soon  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  gayety. 

114 


Ash-Cake  Hannah  and  Her  Ben 

"No  ash-cake  fu'  Hannah  dis  Chris'musl" 
shouted  some  one  as  he  passed  the  happy  woman 
in  the  dance. 

Hannah's  voice  rang  loud  and  clear  through 
the  room  as  she  courtesied  to  her  husband  and 
answered:  "No,  indeed,  honey;  Hannah  gwine 
live  off'en  de  fat  o'  de  Ian'  dis  hyeah  Chris'mus." 

In  a  little  while  Fullerton,  the  master,  came  to 
the  cabin  with  some  of  his  friends  who  wanted 
to  enjoy  looking  on  at  the  negroes'  pleasure. 
This  was  the  signal  for  the  wildest  pranks,  the 
most  fantastic  dancing  and  a  general  period  of 
showing  off.  The  happy-go-lucky  people  were 
like  so  many  children  released  from  their  tasks. 
The  more  loudly  their  visitors  applauded  the 
gayer  they  became.  They  clapped  their  hands, 
they  slapped  their  knees.  They  leaped  and  ca 
pered.  And  among  them,  no  one  was  lighter- 
hearted  than  Ben.  He  had  forgotten  what  lay 
in  store  for  him,  and  his  antics  kept  the  room  in 
a  roar. 

Fullerton  had  seen  him  and  had  expressed  the 

belief  that  Ben  had  run  away,  for  Mason  Tyler 

would  hardly  have  let  him  come  without  sending 

with  him  a  pass;  but  he  took  it  easily,  glad  to  see 

115 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Hannah  enjoying  herself,  and  no  longer  forced 
to  moan  and  fast. 

For  a  brief  space  the  dancers  had  rested. 
Then  the  music  struck  up  again.  They  had  made 
their  "  'bejunce"  and  were  swinging  corners, 
when  suddenly  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  broke 
in  on  the  rhythm  of  the  music,  which  stopped 
with  a  discord.  The  people  stood  startled  and 
expectant,  each  in  the  attitude  in  which  he  had 
stopped.  Ben  was  grinning  sheepishly  and  scrap 
ing  his  foot  on  the  floor.  All  at  once  he  remem 
bered. 

With  a  cry,  Hannah  ran  across  the  room  and 
threw  herself  at  her  master's  feet.  uOh,  Mas' 
Jack,"  she  begged,  udon'  let  Mas'  Mason  Tyler 
whup  Ben !  He  runned  off  to  be  wid  me." 

"  'Sh,"  said  Fullerton  quickly;  "I'll  do  what 
I  can." 

In  another  moment  the  door  was  flung  open 
and  Mason  Tyler,  a  big,  gruff-looking  fellow 
with  a  face  red  with  anger,  stood  in  the  door 
way.  Over  his  shoulder  peeped  two  negroes. 
He  had  a  stout  whip  in  his  hand. 

uls  my — oh,  there  you  are,  you  black  hound. 
Come  here;  I'm  going  to  larrup  you  within  an 
inch  of  your  life." 

116 


Ash-Cake  Hannah  and  Her  Ben 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Tyler,"  broke  in  Fuller- 
ton's  smooth  voice. 

"Oh,  good-evening,  Mr.  Fullerton.  You 
must  excuse  me;  I  was  so  taken  up  with  that 
black  hound  that  I  forgot  my  manners." 

Fullerton  proceeded  to  introduce  his  friends. 
Tyler  met  them  gruffly. 

"Ben,  here,"  he  proceeded,  "has  taken  it  into 
his  head  that  he  is  his  own  master." 

"Oh,  well,  these  things  will  happen  about 
Christmas  time,  and  you  must  overlook  them." 

"Nobody  need  tell  me  how  to  run  my  place." 

"Certainly  not,  but  I've  a  sort  of  interest  in 
Ben  on  Hannah's  account.  However,  we  won't 
talk  of  it.  Come  to  the  house,  and  let  me  offer 
you  some  refreshment." 

"I  haven't  time." 

"My  friends  will  think  very  badly  of  you 
if  you  don't  join  us  in  one  holiday  glass  at 
least." 

Tyler's  eyes  glistened.  He  loved  his  glass. 
He  turned  irresolutely. 

"Oh,  leave  Ben  here  for  the  little  time  you'll 
be  with  us.  I'll  vouch  for  him." 

Mellowed  already  by  pleasant  anticipations, 
Mason  Tyler  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded, 
117 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

and  setting  the  two  negroes  who  accompanied 
him  to  watch  Ben,  he  went  away  to  the  big  house. 

It  was  perhaps  two  hours  later  when  a  negro 
groom  was  sent  to  bed  Tyler's  horse  for  the 
night,  while  one  of  his  own  servants  was  dis 
patched  to  tell  his  family  that  he  could  not  be 
home  that  night. 

Ben,  perfectly  confident  that  he  was  to  "die 
for  an  old  sheep,"  was  making  the  best  of  his 
time,  even  while  expecting  every  moment  to  be 
called  to  go  home  for  punishment.  But  when 
the  news  of  his  master's  determination  to  stay 
reached  him,  his  fears  faded,  and  he  prepared  to 
enjoy  himself  until  fatigue  stopped  him.  As  for 
Hannah,  she  was  joyous  even  though,  woman 
like,  she  could  not  shut  her  eyes  to  the  doubtful 
future. 

It  was  near  twelve  o'clock  on  the  crisp,  bright, 
Christmas  morning  that  followed  when  Mason 
Tyler  called  for  his  horse  to  ride  home.  He  was 
mellow  and  jovial  and  the  red  in  his  face  was 
less  apoplectic.  He  called  for  his  horse,  but  he 
did  not  call  for  Ben,  for  during  the  night  and 
morning  Fullerton  had  gained  several  promises 
from  him;  one  that  he  would  not  whip  the  run 
away,  the  other,  that  Ben  might  spend  the  week. 

118 


Ash-Cake  Hannah  and  Her  Ben 

One  will  promise  anything  to  one's  host,  espe 
cially  when  that  host's  cellar  is  the  most  famous 
in  six  counties. 

It  was  with  joyous  hearts  that  Ash-Cake — 
now  Happy — Hannah  and  Ben  watched  the  de 
parture  of  Tyler.  When  he  was  gone,  Ben 
wrhooped  and  cut  the  pigeon-wing,  while  Han 
nah,  now  that  the  danger  was  past,  uttered  a  re 
proving  :  "You  is  de  beatenes' !  I  mos'  wish  he'd 
'a  tuk  you  erlong  now;"  and  turned  to  open  her 
Christmas  presents. 


119 


DIZZY-HEADED   DICK. 

Those  were  troublous  times  on  the  plantation, 
both  for  master  and  for  man.  The  master  only 
should  have  been  concerned;  but  nothing  ever 
went  on  at  the  "big  house"  that  "the  quarters" 
did  not  feel  and  know.  And  they  had  good  rea 
son  to  know  this.  The  master  had  been  specially 
irritable  that  morning,  and  Dinah  told  Aunt 
Fannie  that  he  had  driven  Jim,  the  valet,  from 
the  room,  and  had  shaved  himself — an  unprece 
dented  happening,  for  Bradley  Fairfax  had  never 
before  been  known  to  refuse  the  delicate  atten 
tions  of  his  favorite  serving-man. 

There  was  another  reason,  too,  why  the  quar 
ters  should  know  all  about  the  trouble,  for  was 
not  Dinah  herself  the  weathervane  whose  gyra 
tions  in  the  quarters  had  only  to  be  watched  to 
know  which  way  the  wind  blew  at  the  big  house, 
and  when  Big  Ben  from  the  Norton  plantation 
came  over  to  visit  her  Emily,  as  he  had  been 
doing  for  a  year  past,  had  she  not  driven  him 
from  the  place? 

"I  ain't  a-raisin'  darters,"  she  said  indignantly, 
"to  th'ow  away  on  de  likes  o'  dem  No'ton  nig- 

120 


Dizzy-Headed  Dick 

gahs;  w'en  Em'ly  m'ay,  I  spec'  huh  to  look  fu' 
biggah  game  in  tallah  trees.'1 

"But,  Dinah,"  said  Aunt  Fannie,  uyo'  been 
lettin'  Ben  gallant  Em'ly  right  erlong  fu'  mos' 
nigh  a  yeah ;  huccome  yo'  done  change  so  quick?" 

Dinah  turned  upon  her  interlocutor  the  look 
of  disgust  which  is  only  possible  with  a  match 
making  matron  as  she  replied:  "La,  A'nt  Fan 
nie,  chile,  you  don'  know?  I  let  huh  go  'long  o' 
him  case  I  hadn't  'skivered  yit  dat  de  niggah 
had  any  'tentions.  Soon  ez  I  did,  I  made  him 
faihly  fly." 

Aunt  Fannie  laughed  significantly,  because  she 
knew  her  people  so  well,  and  said  with  apparent 
irrelevance:  "I  ain't  seed  Mas'  Tawm  No'ton 
up  to  de  big  house  fu'  a  day  er  so." 

It  was  irrelevant,  but  confidential. 

"Heish,  honey;  Mas'  Bradley  done  driv'  him 
away  too  long  'go  to  talk  'bout.  He  'lows  how 
ef  Mis'  Marg'et  cain't  find  no  bettah  match  fu' 
huhse'f  dan  Tawm  No'ton  she  kin  des'  be  a  ol' 
maid,  lak  huh  A'nt  Marg'et." 

"Whut's  de  mattah  wid  Mas'  Tawm?  He 
good  quality  an'  mighty  well  off?" 

"Whut's  de  mattah  ?  W'y,  he  wil'  ez  a  young 
deeh;  whut  wid  hoss-racin'  an'  gwine  down  de 

121 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

ribber  to  Noo  O'leans,  he  des'  taihin'  up  awful 
Jack!" 

"But  hoP  on;  I  don'  see  de  rights  o'  dat.  OP 
Phoebe  say  dat  Mas'  hisse'f  was  one  o'  de  hoss- 
racin'est,  travelin'-erroun'est  young  mans  in  de 
country  w'en  he  was  a-comin'  erlong." 

"Sh-sh ;  maybe  he  done  been  dat,  but  den  Mas' 
he  settled  down." 

"Den  w'y  don'  he  give  Mas'  Tawm  a  chanst? 
A  hoss  got  to  be  a  colt  fus',  ain't  he  ?" 

"Look  hyeah,  A'nt  Fannie,  whut's  de  mat- 
tah'd  you?  I  don't  keer  ef  a  hoss  uz  got  to  be  a 
colt  fus' ;  nobody  ain't  gwine  to  buy  no  colt  w'en 
he  want  a  ca'ige  hoss." 

"No,  indeedy,  an'  yo'  cain't  tell  me !  No  ca'ige 
hoss  ain't  gwine  to  'mount  to  nuffin'  'less'n  he 
been  a  purty  lively  colt." 

"Go  'long,  A'nt  Fannie!" 

"Clah  out,  Dinah !" 

Aunt  Fannie  was  wiser  than  she  seemed.  She 
was  the  cook  for  the  big  house,  and  from  the 
vantage  ground  of  her  kitchen,  which  sat  just  a 
little  way  off  the  back  veranda,  she  saw  many 
things.  Besides,  her  son  Dick  was  a  house  boy, 
and  he  told  her  others. 


122 


Dizzy-Headed  Dick 

She  and  Dick  had  special  reasons  for  loving 
and  cherishing  the  young  Miss  Margaret,  for, 
when  angry  at  some  misdemeanor  of  the  black 
boy's,  Bradley  Fairfax  had  threatened  to  sell 
him  down  the  river,  it  had  been  the  young 
woman's  prayers  rather  than  Aunt  Fannie's  wail- 
ings  that  had  turned  him  from  his  determination. 
So  they  worshiped  her,  and  Dick  would  have 
died  for  her. 

On  the  day  that  the  storm  rose  to  its  height 
Dick  slipped  down  to  his  mother's  kitchen  with 
the  new7s. 

"Whut's  de  mattah'd  you,  Dick?"  asked  his 
mother. 

uSh,  mammy,  but  dey's  goin's  on  up  dah." 

"Whakin'  o'  gwine  on,  huh?" 

"I  hyeahd  Mas'  Bradley  talkin'  to  young  Mis' 
dis  mo'nin',  an'  I  tell  you  fu'  a  little  w'ile  it  was 
mannahs." 

"Whut'd  he  say  to  my  little  lammy?" 

"Dey  was  talkin'  'bout  Mas'  Tawm  No'ton, 
an'  she  tol'  him  dat  Mas'  Tawm  wasn't  so  wiP 
ez  he  used  to  be,  an'  he  uz  a-settlin'  down.  Mas' 
he  up  an'  said  dat  Tawm  No'ton  didn't  come  o' 
a  settlin-down  fambly,  an'  dey  wouldn't  be  no 
weddin'  in  his  house  'tween  huh  an'  a  No'ton. 
123 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Den  she  ax  him  ef  he  an'  Mas'  Tawm's  pa  wa'n't 
great  frien's  w'en  dey  was  young,  an'  he  say, 
c'ose ;  but  dey  had  come  to  de  pa'tin'  o'  de  ways 
long  befo'  ol'  man  Tawm  No'ton  died. 

"Mis'  Marg'et,  she  'plied  up,  'Well,  fathah, 
I  hope  you  won't  fo'ce  yo'  darter  to  steal  away 
lak  a  thief  in  de  night  to  ma'y  de  man  she 
loves.'  " 

"'I  ain't  'fraid,'  oP  Mas'  says;  'no  Fairfax 
lady  have  evah  done  dat.'  'Den  watch  th'oo  de 
day,'  she  answeh  back,  an'  den  I  didn't  hyeah  no 
mo'.  It  'pears  lak  to  me  Mas'  Bradley  ain't  so 
sot  ag'in  Mas'  Tawm  No'ton,  case  he  come  out 
purty  soon  an'  kicked  Jim,  an'  w'en  he  right  mad 
he  don't  ac'  dat  a-way.  Seem  lak  he  des'  kin'  o' 
whimsy  an'  stubbo'n;  but  it's  goin'  to  mek 
somep'n  happen." 

"How  yo'  know  whut  it  gwine  to  do?" 

"  'Case  I  saw  Mis'  Marg'et  ride  down  to  de 
big  gate,  an'  w'en  she  thought  nobody  was  look- 
in'  tek  a  lettah  out  o'  de  post,  an'  w'en  she  rode 
back  huh  lips  was  a-set  in  de  Fairfax  way,  so  I'm 
gwine  to  keep  my  eye  peeled  th'oo  de  day." 

"Oomph,  is  dat  all  you  know?" 

"Yes'm." 

124 


Dizzy-Headed  Dick 

"Well,  you  clah  out,  you  black  rascal;  you 
been  eavesdrappin'  ag'in,  dat's  whut  you  been 
doin'.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  o'  yo'se'f. 
Don'  you  come  hyeah  a'tellin'  me  no  mo'  o'  yo' 
eavesdrappin'  trash;  clah  out!" 

"Yes'm,  I'm  a-goin',  but  you  keep  yo'  eahs 
open,  mammy,  an'  yo'  eyes,  too;  an'  mammy, 
'membah  hit's  ouah  Mis'  Marg'et!" 

"Clah  out,  I  tell  you  !"  and  Dick  went  his  way. 
"Ouah  Mis'  Marg'et;  sic  himpidence!"  mused 
the  old  woman  as  she  began  to  beat  the  dough 
for  the  biscuits;  "ouah  Mis'  Marg'et — my  po' 
little  lamb !" 

If  Tom  Norton  had  only  known  it,  he  had 
two  strong  allies  in  any  designs  he  might  have. 

Aunt  Fannie  affected  to  ignore  Dick's  injunc 
tions.  Nevertheless,  in  the  ensuing  days  she 
followed  his  advice  and  kept  her  eyes  open. 
They  were  so  wide  open  and  so  busy  with  diverse 
things  that  on  two  mornings  she  sent  in  burned 
biscuits  to  the  big  house,  and  was  like  to  lose  her 
reputation. 

However,  all  waiting  must  sometime  end,  and 
Aunt  Fannie's  watchfulness  was  rewarded  when 
she  saw  one  morning  a  carriage  and  pair  dash  up 
125 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

the  front  drive,  circle  the  house,  and  halt  at  the 
back  veranda. 

"I  couldn't  mek  out  whut  was  de  mattah,"  she 
afterward  told  Dinah,  "w'en  I  seed  dat  ca'ige 
flyin'  roun'  de  house  widout  stoppin' ;  den  all  of 
a  suddint  I  seed  my  lammy  come  a'runnin'  out 
wid  a  mantilly  ovah  huh  haid,  an'  I  look  at  de 
ca'ige  ag'in,  an'  lo  an'  behol' ;  dah  stood  young 
Mas'  Tawm  No'ton,  hol'in'  out  his  ahms  to  huh. 
She  runned  right  past  de  kitchen,  an'  whut  you 
think  dat  blessed  chile  do?  She  stop  an'  fling 
huh  ahms  roun'  my  ol'  naik  an'  kiss  me,  an'  hit's 
de  livin  trufe,  I'd  'a'  died  fu'  huh  right  dah.  She 
wa'n't  no  mo'  den  ha'f  way  to  de  ca'ige  w'en  ol' 
Mas'  come  des'  a-ragin'  an'  a-sto'min'  to  de  do', 
an'  Lawd,  chile,  'fo'  I  knowed  it  I  was  a-hol- 
lerin',  'Run,  baby,  run!'  She  did  run,  too,  an' 
Mas'  Tawm  he  run  to  meet  huh  and  tuk  huh  by 
de  han.' 

"Den  I  seed  my  Dick  runnin',  too,  an'  I 
hyeahed  Mas'  Bradley  hollah:  'Cut  de  traces, 
Dick;  cut  de  traces !'  I  stepped  back  an'  reached 
fu'  my  meat  cleavah.  Ef  dat  boy'd  'a'  teched 
dem  traces  I's  mighty  'feahed  I'd  'a'  th'owed  it 
at  him  an'  cut  ouah  'lationship  in  two,  but  I  see 
Mis'  Marg'et  tu'n  an'  look  back  ovah  huh  shoul- 

126 


Dizzy-Headed  Dick 

der  at  him  des'  as  she  step  in  de  ca'ige.  She  gin 
him  a  kin'  o'  'pealin  look,  but  hit  a  'fidin'  look, 
too,  an'  all  of  a  suddint  dat  rascal's  han's  went 
up  in  de  aih  an'  he  fell  flat  on  de  grass.  OF 
Mas'  kept  a'screamin'  to  him  to  cut  de  traces, 
but  c'ose,  'fo'  he  could  git  up  de  bosses  was  a- 
sailin'  down  de  road,  an'  Mis'  Marg'et  was 
a'wavin'  huh  ban'  kin'  o'  sad  lak  outen  de  ca'ige 
winclah;  but  la'  Mas'  Tawm  gin  one  look  at 
Dick  a-layin'  dab  in  de  grass  an'  faihly  split  his 
sides  wid  laffin.'  De  las'  I  seed  o'  dem  ez  dey 
made  de  tu'n  he  was  still  a'hol'in'  hisse'f. 

"Well,  Mas'  Bradley  he  come  a  sto'min'  down 
an'  kick  Dick.  'Git  up,'  he  say,  'git  up,  you  black 
scoun'el,  an'  Dick  raise  his  haid  kin'  o'  weak  lak, 
an'  say  'Huh?'  Well,  I  lak  to  died;  I  didn't 
know  de  boy  had  so  much  dev'ment  in  him. 

"Ol  Mas'  he  grab  him  an'  yank  him  up,  an' 
he  say:  'W'yn't  you  cut  dem  traces?'  An'  Dick 
he  look  up  an'  'ply,  des'  ez  innercent:  'W'y, 
Mas'  Bradley,  I  was  tuk  wid  sich  a  dizz'ness  in 
my  haid  all  o'  de  sudden  hit  seemed  lak  I  was 
tu'nin'  roun'  and  roun'.' 

"  'I  give  you  dizz'ness  in  yo'  haid,'  ol'  Mas' 
hollah;  'tek  him  up  on  de  po'ch  an'  tie  him  to 
one  o'  dem  pillahs!'  So  Bob  an'  Jim  tuk  him 
127 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

up  an'  tied  him  to  one  o'  de  pillahs,  an'  ol'  Mas' 
went  inter  de  house." 

Here  Dinah  broke  in :  "I  was  in  dah  w'en  he 
corned.  Me  an'  ol'  Mis'  had  des'  got  back  f'om 
town,  an'  Mas'  Bradley  he  say,  'Well,  a  fellah 
dat'll  drive  right  up  in  a  man's  ya'd  an'  tek  his 
darter  f'om  under  his  nose  mus'  have  some'p'n 
in  him,'  an'  ol'  Mis'  she  laff  an'  cry  altogethah. 
I  spec'  she  uz  in  de  secret.  I  ain'  so  down  on 
Big  Ben  ez  I  was." 

"La,   Dinah,  you  is  de  beatenes' But 

wait;  lemme  tell  you " 

"Don'  I  know  de  res' ?" 

"You  don't  know  'bout  de  coffee?" 

"No;  whut  'bout  de  coffee?" 

"Aftah  w'ile  Mas'  Bradley  sent  a  whole  string 
o'  little  darkies  down  to  my  kitchen  an'  mek  me 
give  each  of  'em  a  cup  o'  coffee;  den  he  ma'ched 
'em  all  in  line  up  to  Dick  an'  mek  him  drink  all 
de  coffee. 

'  'Whut  you  want  me  drink  all  dis  coffee  fu'  ?' 
Dick  say,  an'  Mas'  Bradley  he  look  mighty 
se'ious  an'  'ply:  Ts  tryin'  to  cuoah  dat  dizzy 
haid  o'  yo'n.'  Well,  suh,  I  wish't  yo'd  'a' 
hyeahed  dem  little  rascallions.  Dey  des'  rolled 
on  de  grass  an'  hollahed,  'Dizzy-haided  Dick! 

128 


Dizzy-Headed  Dick 

Dizzy-haided  Dick!'  an'  Mas'  he  tu'ned  an'  went 
in  de  house.  I  reckon  dat  name'll  stick  to  de  boy 
'twell  he  die;  but  I  don't  keer,  he  didn't  go  back 
on  his  young  Mis',  dizzy  haid  er  no  dizzy  haid, 
an'  Mas'  Bradley  he  gwine  fu'give  de  young 
folks  anyhow.  Ef  he  ain't,  huccome  he  didn't 
taih  Dick  all  to  pieces?" 


129 


THE  CONJURING  CONTEST. 

The  whole  plantation  was  shocked  when  it 
became  generally  known  that  Bob,  who  had  been 
going  with  Viney  for  more  than  a  year,  and  for 
half  that  time  had  publicly  escorted  her  to  and 
from  meeting,  had  suddenly  changed,  and  be 
stowed  his  affections  upon  another.  It  was  the 
more  surprising,  for  Viney  was  a  particularly 
good-looking  girl,  while  the  new  flame,  Cassie, 
was  an  ill-favored  woman  lately  brought  over 
from  another  of  the  Mordaunt  plantations. 

It  was  one  balmy  Sunday  evening  that  they 
strolled  up  from  the  quarters'  yard  together,  arm 
in  arm,  and  set  wagging  the  tongues  of  all  their 
fellow-servants. 

Bob's  mother,  who  was  sitting  out  in  front  of 
her  door,  gave  a  sigh  as  her  son  passed  with  his 
ungainly  sweetheart.  She  was  still  watching 
them  with  an  unhappy  look  in  her  eyes  when 
Mam'  Henry,  the  plantation  oracle,  approached 
and  took  a  seat  on  the  step  beside  her. 

uHowdy,  Mam'  Henry,"  said  Maria. 

"Howdy,  Maria;  how  you  come  on?" 
130 


The  Conjuring  Contest 

"Oh,  right  peart  in  my  body,  but  I'm  kin'  o' 
'sturbed  in  my  min'." 

"Huh,  I  reckon  you  is  'sturbed  in  yo'  min' !" 
said  the  old  woman  keenly.  "Maria,  you  sholy 
is  one  blin'  'ooman." 

"Blin'  ?  I  don't  know  whut  you  mean,  Mam' 
Henry;  how's  I  blin'?" 

"You's  blin',  I  tell  you.  Now,  whut  you 
s'pose  de  mattah  wid  yo'  Bob?" 

"De  mattah  wid  him?  Dat  des'  whut  trouble 
my  min'.  Mam'  Henry,  hit's  to  think  dat  dat 
boy  o'  mine  'u'd  be  so  thickle-minded !" 

"Uh!" 

"Hyeah  he  was  a-gwine  'long  o'  Viney,  whut 
sholy  is  a  lakly  gal,  an'  a  peart  one,  too;  den  all 
o'  a  sudden  he  done  change  his  min',  an'  tek  up 
wid  dat  ol'  ha'd-time  lookin'  gal.  I  don'  know 
whut  he  t'inkin'  'bout." 

"You  don'  know  whut  he  t'inkin'  'bout?  Co'se 
you  don'  know  whut  he  t'inkin'  'bout,  an'  I  don' 
know  whar  yo'  eyes  is,  dat  you  can't  see  somep'n' 
dat's  dcs'  ez  plain  ez  de  nose  on  yo'  face." 

"Well,  I  'low  I  mus'  be  blin',  Mam'  Henry, 
'ca'se  I  don'  understan'  it." 

"Whut  you  reckon  a  lakly  boy  lak  Bob  see  on 
dat  gallus  niggah?" 

131 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"I  don*  know,  Mam'  Henry,  but  dey  do  say 
she  bake  mighty  fine  biscuits,  an'  you  know  Bob's 
min'  moughty  close  to  his  stomach." 

"Biscuits,  biscuits,"  snorted  the  old  woman; 
"  'tain't  no  biscuits  got  dat  man  crazy.  Hit's 
roots,  I  tell  you;  hit's  roots!" 

"Mam'  Henry,  fo'  de  Lawd,  you  don' 
mean — " 

The  old  woman  leaned  solemnly  over  to  her 
companion  and  whispered  dramatically:  "He's 
conju'ed;  dat's  whut  he  is!" 

Maria  sprang  up  from  the  doorway  and  stood 
gazing  at  Mam'  Henry  like  a  startled  animal; 
then  she  said  in  a  hurried  voice:  "Whut!  dat 
huzzy  conju'  my  chile?  I — I — I'll  kill  huh; 
dat's  whut  I  will." 

"Yes,  you  kill  huh,  co'se  you  will.  I  reckon 
dat'll  tek  de  spell  off  en  Bob,  won't  hit?  Dat'll 
kep  him  f'om  hatin'  you,  an'  des  pinin'  erway  an' 
dyin'  fu'  huh,  won't  hit,  uh?" 

Maria  sank  down  again  in  utter  helplessness, 
crying:  "Conju'ed,  conju'ed;  oh,  whut  shell  I 
do?" 

"Fus'  t'ing,"  said  Mam'  Henry,  "you  des  set 
up  an'  ac'  sensible.  Aftah  dat  I'll  talk  to  you." 

132 


The  Conjuring  Contest 

"Go  on,  Mam'  Henry;  I's  a-listenin'  to  you. 
Conju'ed,  conju'ed,  my  boy!  Oh,  de— 

"Heish  up,  an'  listen  to  me.  Befo'  Bob  put 
on  his  shoes  termorrer  mornin'  you  slip  a  piece  o' 
silvah  in  de  right  one,  flat  in  de  middle,  whah  he 
won'  feel  it.  You  want  to  fin'  out  how  he's  con 
ju'ed,  an'  des'  how  bad  it  is.  Ef  she  ain't  done 
nuffin'  but  planted  somep'n'  roun'  de  do'  fu'  him, 
why  I  reckon  des'  sowin'  salt'll  brek  de  spell;  but 
ef  she's  cotch  him  in  his  eatin's  you'll  have  to  see 
a  reg'lar  conju'  doctah  fo'  you  kin  wo'k  dat  out. 
I  ain't  long-haided  myse'l;  but  I  got  a  frien'  dat 


is." 


"But,  Mam'  Henry,  how  I  gwine  tell  how  bad 
de  conju'  is?" 

"Huh,  gal,  you  don'  know  nuffin' !  Ef  de 
silvah  tu'ns  right  black,  w'y,  he's  cotched  bad, 
an'  ef  it  only  tu'ns  kin'  o'  green  he's  only  mid- 
dlin'  tricked." 

"How  long  I  got  to  wait  'fo'  I  knows?" 

"Let  him  wah  de  silvah  th'ee  er  fo'  days,  an' 
den  let  me  see  it." 

Maria  did  as  she  was  told,  placing  a  dime  in 
the  bottom  of  her  son's  shoe,  and  at  the  expira 
tion  of  the  alloted  time,  with  eyes  fear  and 
wonder  wide,  she  took  the  coin  to  her  instructor. 
133 


/;/  Old  Plantation  Days 

Whether  from  working  in  the  field  all  day  the 
soil  had  ground  into  Bob's  shoe  and  discolored 
the  coin,  or  whether  it  had  attracted  some  subtle 
poison  from  the  wearer's  body,  is  not  here  to  be 
decided.  From  some  cause  the  silver  piece  was 
as  dark  as  copper. 

Mam'  Henry  shook  her  head  over  it.  "He 
sho'  is  cotched  bad,"  she  said.  "I  reckon  she 
done  cotched  him  in  his  eatin's;  dat  de  wuss  kin'. 
You  tek  dat  silvah  piece  an'  th'ow  it  in  de  runnin' 
watah." 

Maria  hesitated;  this  was  part  of  a  store  she 
was  saving  for  a  particular  purpose. 

"W'y  does  I  has  to  do  dat,  Mam'  Henry?" 
she  asked.  "Ain'  dey  no  othah  way?" 

"Go  'long,  gal;  whut's  de  mattah  wid  you? 
You  do  ez  I  tell  you.  Don'  you  know  dat  any- 
t'ing  you  buy  wid  dat  money'd  be  bad  luck  to 
you  ?  Dat  ah  dime's  chuck  full  o'  goophah,  clah 
to  de  rim." 

So,  trembling  with  fear,  Maria  hastened  to 
the  branch  and  threw  the  condemned  coin  into  it, 
and  she  positively  asserted  to  Mam'  Henry  on 
her  return  that  the  water  had  turned  right  black 
and  thick  where  the  coin  sunk. 

134 


The  Conjuring  Contest 

"Now,  de  nex'  t'ing  fu'  you  to  do  is  to  go 
down  an'  see  my  frien',  de  conju'  doctah.  He 
live  down  at  de  fo'ks  o'  de  road,  des'  back  o'  de 
oP  terbaccer  house.  Hit's  a  skeery  place,  but  you 
go  dah  ter-night,  an'  tell  him  I  sont  you,  an'  he 
lif  de  spell.  But  don'  you  go  down  dah  offerin' 
to  pay  him  nuffin',  'ca'se  dat  'stroy  his  cha'ms. 
Aftah  de  wo'k  done,  den  you  gin  him  whut  you 
want,  an'  ef  it  ain't  enough  he  put  de  spell  back 
on  ergin.  But  mustn'  nevah  ax  a  conju'  doctah 
whut  he  chawge,  er  pay  him  'fo'  de  cha'm  wo'k, 
no  mo'n  you  mus'  say  thanky  fu'  flowah  seed." 

About  nine  that  night,  Maria,  frightened  and 
trembling,  presented  herself  at  the  "conju'  doc- 
tah's"  door.  The  hut  itself  was  a  grewsome 
looking  place,  dark  and  dilapidated.  The  yard 
surrounding  it  was  overrun  with  a  dense  growth 
of  rank  weeds  which  gave  forth  a  sickening 
smell  as  Maria's  feet  pressed  them.  The  front 
window  was  shuttered,  and  the  sagging  roof 
sloped  down  to  it,  like  the  hat  of  a  drunken  man 
over  a  bruised  eye. 

The  mew  of  a  cat,  the  shuffling  of  feet  and  a 

rattle  of  glass  followed  the  black  woman's  knock, 

and   Maria   pictured  the   terrible  being   within 

hastening  to  put  away  some  of  his  terrible  decoc- 

135 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

tions  before  admitting  her.  She  was  so  afraid 
that  she  had  decided  to  turn  and  flee,  leaving 
Bob  to  his  fate,  when  the  door  opened  and  the 
doctor  stood  before  her. 

He  was  a  little,  wizened  old  man,  his  wrinkled 
face  the  color  of  parchment.  The  sides  of  his 
head  were  covered  with  a  bush  of  gray  hair, 
while  the  top  was  bald  and  blotched  with  brown 
and  yellow  spots.  A  black  cat  was  at  his  side, 
looking  with  evil  eyes  at  the  visitor. 

"Is  you  de  conju'  doctah?"  asked  Maria. 

He  stepped  back  that  she  might  enter,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her.  "Ps  Doctah  Bass," 
he  replied. 

"I  come  to  see  you — I  come  to  see  you  'bout 
my  son.  Mam'  Henry,  she  sont  me." 

"Well,  le'  m'  hyeah  all  erbout  it."  His  man 
ner  was  reassuring,  if  his  looks  were  not,  and 
somewhat  encouraged,  Maria  began  to  pour 
forth  the  story  of  her  woes  into  the  conjure  doc 
tor's  attentive  ear.  When  she  was  done  he  sat 
for  a  while  in  silence,  then  he  said : 

"I  reckon  she's  got  some  o'  his  ha'r — dat  meks 
a  moughty  strong  spell  in  a  'ooman's  han's.  You 
go  back  an'  bring  me  some  o'  de'  'ooman's  ha'r, 
an'  I  fix  it,  I  fix  it." 

136 


The  Conjuring  Contest 

"But  how's  I  gwine  git  any  o'  huh  ha'r?" 

"Dat  ain'  fu'  me  to  say;  I  des'  tell  you  whut 
to  do." 

Maria  backed  out  of  the  bottle-filled,  root- 
hung  room,  and  flew  home  through  the  night, 
with  a  thousand  terrors  pressing  hard  upon  her 
heels. 

All  next  day  she  wondered  how  she  could  get 
some  of  her  enemy's  hair.  Not  until  evening  did 
the  solution  of  the  problem  come  to  her,  and  she 
smiled  at  its  simplicity.  When  Cassie,  her  son's 
unwelcome  sweetheart,  came  along,  she  stepped 
out  from  her  cabin  door  and  addressed  her  in 
terms  that  could  mean  but  one  thing — fight. 
Cassie  attacked  Maria  tooth  and  nail,  but  Maria 
was  a  wiry  little  woman,  and  when  Bob  sepa 
rated  the  two  a  little  later  his  mother  was  bruised 
but  triumphant,  for  in  her  hand  she  held  a  gen 
erous  bunch  of  Cassie's  hair. 

"You  foun'  out  a  way  to  git  de  ha'r,"  said  the 
conjure  doctor  to  her  that  night,  "an'  you  ain't 
spaihed  no  time  a-gittin'  it." 

He  was  busy  compounding  a  mixture  which 

looked  to  Maria  very  much  like  salt  and  ashes. 

To  this  he  added  a  brown  thing  which  looked 

like  the  dried  liver  of  some  bird.    Then  he  put 

137 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

in  a  portion  of  Cassie's  hair.    The  whole  of  this 
he  wrapped  up  in  a  snake's  skin  and  put  in  a  bag. 

"Dat'll  fetch  him,"  he  said,  handing  the  bag 
to  Maria.  "You  tek  dis  an'  put  it  undah  his 
baid  whah  he  won'  fin'  it,  an'  sprinkle  de  res'  o' 
dis  ha'r  on  de  blanket  he  lay  on,  an'  let  hit  stay 
dah  seven  days.  Aftah  dat  he  come  roun'  all 
right.  Den  you  kin  come  to  see  me,"  he  added 
significantly. 

Clasping  her  treasure,  Maria  hastened  home 
and  placed  the  conjure  bag  under  her  son's  bed, 
and  sprinkled  the  short,  stiff  hair  as  she  had  been 
directed.  He  came  in  late  that  night,  hurried 
out  of  his  clothes  and  leaped  into  bed.  Usually 
he  went  at  once  to  sleep,  but  not  so  now.  He 
rolled  and  tossed,  and  it  was  far  past  midnight 
before  his  regular  breathing  signified  to  the  list 
ening  mother  that  he  was  asleep.  Then  with  a 
murmured,  "De  conju'  is  a-wokin'  him,"  she 
turned  over  and  addressed  herself  to  rest. 

The  next  morning  Bob  was  tired  and  care 
worn,  and  when  asked  what  was  the  matter,  re 
sponded  that  his  dreams  had  been  troubled.  He 
was  so  tired  when  the  day's  work  was  over  that 
he  decided  not  to  go  and  see  Cassie  that  night. 

138 


i. ::  - , 


The  Conjuring  Contest 

He  was  just  about  going  to  bed  when  a  tap  came 
at  the  cabin  door,  and  Viney  came  in. 

"Evening  A'nt  Maria,"  she  said;  "evenin', 
Bob." 

"Evenin',"  they  both  said. 

"I  des'  run  in,  A'nt  Maria,  to  bring  you  some 
o'  my  biscuits.  Mam'  Henry  done  gi'  me  a  new 
'ceipt  fu'  mekin'  dem."  She  uncovered  the  crisp, 
brown  rolls,  and  the  odor  of  them  reached  Bob's 
nose.  His  eyes  bulged,  and  he  paused  with  his 
hand  on  his  boot. 

uLa,"  said  Maria,  "dese  sho'  is  nice,  Viney. 
He'p  yo'se'f,  Bob." 

Bob  suddenly  changed  his  mind  about  going 
to  bed,  and  he  and  Viney  sat  and  chatted  while 
the  biscuits  disappeared.  Maria  discreetly  re 
tired,  and  she  said  to  herself  as  she  sat  outside  on 
the  step:  "Dey  ain't  no  way  fu'  dat  boy  to  'sist 
dat  goophah  an'  dem  biscuits,  too." 

Bob's  dreams  were  troubled  again  that  night, 
and  the  next,  and  as  the  evenings  came  he  still 
found  himself  too  tired  to  go  a-courting.  All 
this  was  not  lost  on  the  watchful  mother,  and  she 
duly  reported  matters  to  Mam'  Henry,  who 
transferred  her  information  to  Cassie  in  the  fol 
lowing  manner: 

139 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Hit  sholy  don1  seem  right,  Sis'  Cassie,  w'en 
Bob  gwine  'long  o'  you,  fu'  him  to  be  settin'  up 
evah  night  'long  o'  dat  gal  Viney." 

And  Cassie,  who  was  a  high-spirited  girl,  re 
plied: 

"Uh,  let  de  niggah  go  'long;  I  don'  keer 
nuffin'  'bout  him." 

Next  time  she  met  Bob  she  passed  without 
speaking  to  him,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  laughed, 
and  didn't  seem  to  care,  for  Mam'  Henry's  bis 
cuit  receipt  had  made  Viney  dearer  to  him  than 
she  had  ever  been.  Up  until  the  eighth  night 
his  dreams  continued  to  be  troubled,  but  on  that 
night  he  slept  easily,  and  dreamed  of  Viney,  for 
Maria  had  removed  the  conjure  bag  and  had 
thrown  it  into  running  water.  What  is  more,  she 
had  shaken  the  hair  out  of  the  blanket. 

The  first  evening  that  Bob  felt  sufficiently 
rested  to  go  out  skylarking  it  was  with  Viney  he 
walked,  and  the  quarters  nodded  and  wondered. 
They  walked  up  to  the  master's  house,  where  the 
momentous  question  was  asked  and  favorably 
answered.  Then  they  came  back  radiant,  and 
Viney  set  out  some  biscuits  and  preserves  in  her 
cabin  to  clinch  it,  and  invited  Maria  and  Mam' 
Henry  to  share  them  with  Bob  and  her. 

140 


The  Conjuring  Contest 

That  night  sundry  things  from  the  big  house, 
as  well  as  lesser  things  from  Maria's  cabin  found 
their  way  to  the  "conju'  doctah's."  The  things 
from  the  big  house  were  honestly  procured,  but 
it  took  the  telling  of  the  whole  story  by  Maria  to 
get  them. 

When  she  had  gone,  her  master,  Dudley 
Stone,  laughed  to  himself,  and  said  with  true 
Saxon  incredulity:  "That  old  rascal,  Bass,  is  a 
sharp  one.  I  think  lying  on  Cassie's  hair  would 
trouble  anybody's  dreams,  conjure  or  no  conjure, 
and  if  Viney  learned  to  make  biscuits  like  Mam 
my  Henry  she  needed  no  stronger  charm." 


141 


DANDY  JIM'S  CONJURE  SCARE. 

Dandy  Jim  was  very  much  disturbed  when  he 
came  in  that  morning  to  shave  his  master.  He 
was  Dandy  Jim,  because  being  just  his  master's 
size,  he  came  in  for  the  spruce  garments  which 
Henry  Desmond  cast  off.  The  dark-skinned 
valet  took  great  pride  in  his  personal  appearance, 
and  was  little  less  elegant  than  the  white  man 
himself.  He  was  such  a  dapper  black  boy,  and 
always  so  light  and  agile  on  his  feet  that  his 
master  looked  up  in  genuine  surprise  when  he 
came  in  this  morning  looking  care-worn  and  de 
jected,  and  walking  with  a  decided  limp. 

To  the  question,  "Why,  what  on  earth  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Jim?"  he  answered  only  with 
a  doleful  shake  of  his  head. 

"Why,  you  look  like  you'd  been  getting  re 
ligion." 

"No,  I  ain't  quite  as  bad  as  dat,  Mas'  Henry. 
Religion  'fects  de  soul,  but  hits  my  body  dats 
'fected." 

"You've  been  getting  your  feet  wet,  I  reckon, 
and  it's  cold." 

"I  wish  'twas;  I  wish  'twas,"  said  Jim  sadly. 
142 


Dandy  Jim's  Conjure  Scare 

"You  wish  it  was?  Well,  what  is  the  matter 
with  you?" 

"Mas'  Henry,  kin  you  let  me  have  a  silver 
dime?  Fs  been  hurted." 

"Jim!" 

"I  tell  you  I's  been  tricked." 

"And  you  believe  in  that  sort  of  thing  after 
all  I've  tried  to  teach  you?" 

"Mas'  Henry,  I  tell  you,  I's  been  tricked. 
Dey  ain't  no  'sputin'  de  signs,  teachin'  er  no 
teachin' !" 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  the  signs  so  that 
I'd  know  them.  It's  just  possible  that  I  may 
have  been  tricked  some  time  and  didn't  know  it." 

"Don'  joke,  Mas'  Henry,  don'  joke.  Dis  is 
a  se'ious  mattah,  an'  'f  you'd  'a'  evah  been  tricked 
an'  hit  doneright,you'd'a'  knowed,case  dey  'ain't 
no  'sputin'  de  symptoms.  Dey's  mighty  well 
known.  W'en  a  body's  tricked,  dey's  tricked, 
an'  dat's  de  gospel  truf." 

"Do  you  claim  to  knowr  them?" 

"Don'  I  tell  you  I's  a  sufferin'  f'om  dem 
now?" 

"Well,  what  are  they?" 

"Well,  fu'  one  t'ing,  I's  got  a  mighty  mis'ry 
in  my  back,  an'  I  got  de  limb  trimbles,  an'  I's 
143 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

des'  creepy  all  ovah  in  spots,  dat's  a  sho'  sign, 
whenevah  you  feels  spotted.  I  tells  you,  Mas' 
Henry,  somebody's  done  laid  fu'  me  an'  cotch 
me.  I  wish  you'd  please,  suh,  gimme  a  piece  o' 
silvah  to  lay  on  de  place." 

"What  will  that  do?" 

"W'y,  I  wants  to  be  right  sho',  fo'  I  goes  to 
a  conju'  doctah,  an'  ef  I  is  tricked,  de  silvah, 
hit'll  show  it,  'dout  a  doubt.  Hit'll  tu'n  right 
black." 

ujim,"  said  the  white  man,  as  he  handed  over 
the  silver  coin,  "I've  never  known  you  to  talk 
this  way  before,  and  I  believe  you've  got  some 
oher  reason  for  believing  you're  conjured  be 
sides  the  ones  you've  given  me.  You  rascal, 
you've  been  up  to  something." 

The  valet  grinned  sheepishly,  hung  his  head 
and  shuffled  his  feet  in  a  way  that  instantly  con 
fessed  judgment. 

"Come,  own  up  now,"  pressed  his  master, 
"what  devilment  have  you  been  up  to?" 

"I  don'  see  how  it's  any  dev'ment  fu'  a  body 
to  go  to  see  de  gal  he  like." 

'Uh-huh,  you've  been  after  somebody  else's 
girl,  have  you?    And  he's  fixed  you,  eh?" 
144 


Dandy  Jim's  Conjure  Scare 

"I  didn't  know  'Lize  was  goin'  'long  o'  any 
body  else  'twell  I  went  in  thaih  de  othah  night 
to  see  huh,  an'  even  den,  she  nevah  let  on  nuffin'. 
We  talked  erlong,  an'  laughed,  an'  was  havin'  a 
mighty  fine  time.  You  see  'Lize,  she  got  a 
powahful  drawin'  way  erbout  huh.  I  kep'  on 
settin'  up  nighah  an'  nighah  to  huh,  an'  she  kep' 
laughin',  but  she  nevah  hitched  huh  cheer  away, 
so  co'se  I  thought  hit  was  all  right,  an'  dey  wa'nt 
nobody  else  a-keepin'  comp'ny  wid  huh.  Wen, 
lo,  an'  behol',  des'  as  I  was  erbout  to  put  my  ahm 
erroun'  huh  wais',  who  should  walk  in  de  do'  but 
one  dem  gret  big,  red-eyed  fiel'-han's.  Co'se  I 
drawed  erway,  fu'  dat  man  sho'  did  look  dang'- 
ous.  Well,  co'se,  a  gent'man  got  to  show  his 
mannahs,  so  I  ups  an'  says,  "Good-evenin',  suh,' 
an'  meks  my  'bejunce.  Oomph,  dat  man  nevah 
answered  no  mo'n  I'd  been  a  knot  on  a  log,  an' 
him  anothah.  Den  'Lize  she  up  an  say,  'Good- 
evenin',  Sam,  an'  bless  yo'  soul,  ef  he  didn't  treat 
huh  de  same  way.  He  des'  went  ovah  in  de 
cornder  an'  sot  down  an'  thaih  he  sot,  a-lookin' 
at  us  wid  dem  big  red  eyes  o'  his'n  a-fai'ly 
blazin' !  Well,  I  seed  dat  'Lize  was  a-gittin' 
oneasy,  an'  co'se,  hit  ain't  nevah  perlite  to  be  a 
145 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

inconwenience  to  a  lady,  so  I  gits  up  an'  takes 
my  hat,  an'  takes  my  departer." 

uThe  fact,  in  other  words,  is,  you  ran  from 
the  man." 

"No,  suh,  a  pusson  couldn't  'zactly  say  I  run. 
I  did  come  erway  kind  o'  fas',  but  you  see,  I 
was  thinkin'  'bout  'Lize's  feelin's  an'  hit  seemed 
lak  ef  I'd  git  out  o'  de  way,  it'd  relieve  de 


strain." 


uYes,  your  action  does  great  credit  to  your 
goodness  of  heart  and  your  respect  for  your  per 
sonal  safety,  Jim." 

Jim  flashed  a  quick  glance  up  into  his  master's 
face.  He  did  not  like  to  be  laughed  at,  but  his 
eyes  met  nothing  but  the  most  serious  of  expres 
sions,  so  he  went  on:  "Dat  uz  two  nights  ago, 
an4  evah  sence  den,  I  been  feelin'  mighty  funny. 
I  des'  mo'n  'low  dat  Sam  done  laid  fu'me,  an' 
cotch  me  in  de  back  an'  laig.  You  know,  Mas' 
Henry,  dem  ah  red-eyed  people,  dey  mighty  dan- 
g'ous,  an'  it  don'  do  nobody  no  good  to  go  'long 
a-foolin'  wid  'em.  Ef  I'd  'a'  knowed  dat  Sam 
was  a-goin'  'long  o'  'Lize,  I  sholy  would  'a'  fed 
'em  bofe  wid  a  long  spoon.  I  do'  want  nobody 
plantin'  t'ings  fu'  me." 

146 


Dandy  Jim's  Conjure  Scare 

"Jim,  you're  hopeless.  Here  I've  tried  my 
best  to  get  that  conjuring  notion  out  of  your 
head.  You've  been  brought  up  right  here  in  the 
house  with  me  for  three  or  four  years,  and  now 
the  first  thing  that  happens,  you  fall  right  back 
to  those  old  beliefs  that  would  be  unworthy  of 
your  African  grandfather." 

"Mas'  Henry,  I  ain'  goin'  to  'spute  none  o' 
yo'  teachin's,  an'  I  ain'  goin'  to  argy  wid  you, 
'case  you  my  mastah,  an'  it  wouldn'  be  perlite, 
but  I  des'  got  one  t'ing  to  say,  dat  piece  o'  silvah 
you  gi'  me,  '11  tell  de  tale." 

The  valet  now  having  finished  his  work  and 
his  complaints,  went  his  way,  leaving  his  master 
a  bit  disgusted,  and  a  good  deal  amused.  "These 
great  overgrown  children,"  he  mused,  "still 
frightened  by  fairy  tales." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  the  master 
saw  his  servant  again.  Then  he  opened  his  eyes 
in  astonishment  at  him. 

Henry  Desmond  was  sitting  on  the  porch, 
when  the  black  man  hove  in  sight.  He  would 
have  slipped  round  to  the  back  of  the  house  and 
entered  that  way  had  not  his  master  called  to 
him.  Dandy  Jim,  a  dandy  no  longer,  approached 
and  stood  before  his  speechless  owner.  He  was 
147 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

a  figure  for  gods  and  men  to  behold.  He  was 
covered  with  dirt  from  head  to  foot.  His  clothes 
looked  as  though  he  might  have  changed  raiment 
with  an  impoverished  scarecrow.  One  sleeve  was 
gone  out  of  his  coat,  and  the  leg  of  his  trousers 
was  ripped  from  the  knee  down.  A  half  a  dozen 
scratches  and  bruises  disfigured  his  face,  and 
when  he  walked,  it  was  with  a  limp  more  de 
cidedly  genuine  than  the  one  of  the  morning. 
But  the  feature  that  utterly  surprised  Henry 
Desmond,  that  took  away  his  speech  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  was  the  beautiful  smile  that  sat  on 
Jim's  countenance. 

The  master  finally  found  his  voice,  "Jim,  what 
on  earth  is  the  matter?  You  look  like  a  storm 
had  struck  you." 

"Oh,  Mas'  Henry,  I  ain'  conjuahed,  I  ain' 
conjuahed!" 

"You  ain't  conjured?  Well,  you  look  a  good 
deal  more  like  you'd  been  conjured  than  you  did 
this  morning.  I  should  take  it  for  granted  that 
a  whole  convention  of  witches  and  hoodoos  had 
sat  on  your  case." 

"No  suh,  no  suh,  I  ain'  conjuahed  a-tall." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  then?" 
148 


Dandy  Jim's  Conjure  Scare 

"W'y,  suh,  I's  seed  dat  red-eyed  fiel-han'  Sam, 
an'  he  pu't  nigh  walloped  de  life  out  o'  me,  yes, 
suh,  he  did." 

"Well,  you  take  it  blessed  cheerful." 
"Dat's  becase  I  knows  I  ain'  conjuahed." 
"Didn't  the  silver  turn  black?     You  know  it 
might  not  have  had  time  yet!" 

"Mas'  Henry,  I  ain'  bothahed  nuffin'  'bout  de 
silvah,  I  ain'  'pendin'  on  dat.  De  reason  I  knows 
I  ain'  conjuahed,  Sam,  he  done  whupped  me.  I 
was  a  goin'  down  to  de  fiel'  'long  'bout  dinnah 
time,  an'  who  should  I  meet  but  Sam.  'Hoi'  on, 
Jim,'  he  say,  a  settin'  down  de  bucket  he  was 
ca'in'  to  de  fiel'.  'Hoi'  on,'  he  say,  an'  I  stop 
'twell  he  come  up.  'Jim,'  he  say,  'you  was  down 
in  the  quahtahs  a-settin'  up  to  Miss  'Lize  night 
befo'  last',  wasn't  you  ?'  'Well,  I  was  present,' 
say  I,  'on  dat  occasion,  w'en  I  had  de  pleasure  o' 
meetin'  you.'  'Nemmine  dat,  nemmine  dat/  he 
say,'  'I  do'  want  none  o'  yo'  fine  wo'ds  what  you 
lu'n  up  to  de  big  house,  an'  uses  crookid  down 
in  de  quahtahs;'  but  bless  yo'  soul,  Mas'  Henry, 
dat  wa'nt  true — 'I  do'  want  none  o'  yo'  fine 
wo'ds;'  den  he  tuk  off  his  hat,  an'  rolled  up  his 
sleeves — he  sholy  has  got  awful  ahms.  Ts  goin' 
to  whup  you,'  says  he,  an',  well,  suh,  he  did.  He 
149 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

whupped  me  mos'  scan'lous.  He  des'  walloped 
me  all  ovah  de  groun'.  Oomph,  I  nevah  shell 
fu'git  it!  W'y>  dat  man  lak  to  wo'  me  out. 
Seemed  lak,  w'en  he  fust  sta'ted,  he  was  des' 
goin'  to  give  me  a  little  dressin'  down,  but  he 
seemed  to  waken  to  de  wo'k  ez  he  pursued  his 
co'se.  W'en  he  got  thoo,  he  say,  'Now  ef  evah 
I  ketches  you  foolin'  'roun'  Miss  'Lize  agin,  I'll 
brek  you  all  ter  pieces/  Den  I  come  away  re- 
joicin'  'case  I  knowed  I  wa'nt  tricked." 

"Well,  you're  the  first  man  I  ever  saw  rejoice 
over  such  a  thrashing  as  you've  had.  What  do 
you  mean?  How  do  you  know  you're  not  con 
jured?" 

"W'y,  Mas'  Henry,  what's  de  use  o'  con- 
juahin'  a  man  w'en  you  can  whup  him  lak  dat? 
Hain't  dat  enough  satisfaction?  Dey  ain't  no 
need  to  go  'roun'  wo'kin  wid  roots  w'en  you  got 
sich  fistes  ez  Sam  got." 

"But  you  had  so  much  confidence  in  the  silver 
this  morning.  What  does  the  silver  say?" 

"La,  Mas'  Henry,  aftah  Sam  whupped  me 
dat  'way  I  was  so  satisfied  in  my  min'  dat  I  des' 
tuk  off  de  silvah  an  bought  lin'ment  wid  it.  You 

150 


Dandy  Jim's  Conjure  Scare 

kin  cuoah  bruises  wid  lin'ment,  an'  you  allus 
knows  des  how  to  reach  de  case,  but  conjuah, 
dat's  diff'unt."  And  Jim  limped  away  to  apply 
his  lotion  to  his  sore,  but  unconjured  body. 


151 


THE    MEMORY    OF    MARTHA. 

You  may  talk  about  banjo-playing  if  you  will, 
but  unless  you  heard  old  Ben  in  his  palmy  days 
you  have  no  idea  what  genius  can  do  with  five 
strings  stretched  over  the  sheepskin. 

You  have  been  told,  perhaps,  that  the  banjo  is 
not  an  expressive  instrument.  Well,  in  the  hands 
of  the  ordinary  player  it  is  not.  But  you  should 
have  heard  old  Ben,  as  bending  low  over  the 
neck,  with  closed  eyes,  he  made  the  shell  respond 
like  a  living  soul  to  his  every  mood.  It  sang, 
it  laughed,  it  sighed;  and,  just  as  the  tears  began 
welling  up  into  the  listener's  eyes,  it  would  break 
out  into  a  merry  reel  that  would  set  one's  feet 
a-twinkling  before  one  knew  it. 

Ben  and  his  music  were  the  delight  of  the 
whole  plantation,  white  and  black,  master  and 
man,  and  in  the  evening  when  he  sat  before  his 
cabin  door,  picking  out  tune  after  tune,  hymn, 
ballad  or  breakdown,  he  was  always  sure  of  an 
audience.  Sometimes  it  was  a  group  of  white 
children  from  the  big  house,  with  a  TOW  of 
pickaninnies  pressing  close  to  them.  Sometimes 
it  was  old  Mas'  and  Mis'  themselves  who  strolled 

152 


The  Memory  of.  Martha 

up  to  the  old  man,  drawn  By  his  strains.  Often 
there  was  company,  and  then  Ben  would  be  asked 
to  leave  his  door  and  play  on  the  veranda  of 
the  big  house.  Later  on  he  would  come  back  to 
Martha  laden  with  his  rewards,  and  swelled  with 
the  praise  of  his  powers. 

And  Martha  would  say  to  him,  "You,  Ben, 
don'  you  git  conceity  now ;  you  des'  keep  yo'  haid 
level.  I  des'  mo'n  'low  you  been  up  dah  playin' 
some  o'  dem  ongodly  chunes,  lak  Hoe  Co'n  an' 
Dig  Tatars." 

Ben  would  laugh  and  say,  /'Well,  den,  I  tek 
de  wickedness  often  de  banjo.  Swing  in,  ol' 
'ooman!"  And  he  would  drop  into  the  accom 
paniment  of  one  of  the  hymns  that  were  the 
joy  of  Martha's  religious  soul,  and  she  would 
sing  with  him  until,  with  a  flourish  and  a  thump, 
he  brought  the  music  to  an  end. 

Next  to  his  banjo,  Ben  loved  Martha,  and 
next  to  Ben,  Martha  loved  the  banjo.  In  a  time 
and  a  region  where  frequent  changes  of  partners 
were  common,  these  two  servants  were  noted 
for  their  single-hearted  devotion  to  each  other. 
He  had  never  had  any  other  wife,  and  she  had 
called  no  other  man  husband.  Their  children 
had  grown  up  and  gone  to  other  plantations,  or 
153 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

to  cabins  of  their  own.  So,  alone,  drawn  closer 
by  the  habit  of  comradeship,  they  had  grown  old 
together — Ben,  Martha  and  the  banjo. 

One  day  Martha  was  taken  sick,  and  Ben 
came  home  to  find  her  moaning  with  pain,  but 
dragging  about  trying  to  get  his  supper.  With 
loud  pretended  upbraidings  he  bundled  her  into 
bed,  got  his  own  supper,  and  then  ran  to  his  mas 
ter  with  the  news. 

uMarfy  she  down  sick,  Mas'  Tawm,"  he  said, 
"an*  I's  mighty  oneasy  in  my  min'  'bout  huh. 
Seem  lak  she  don'  look  right  to  me  outen  huh 
eyes." 

"I'll  send  the  doctor  right  down,  Ben,"  said 
his  master.  "I  don't  reckon  it's  anything  very 
serious.  I  wish  you  would  come  up  to  the  house 
to-night  with  your  banjo.  Mr.  Lewis  is  going 
to  be  here  with  his  daughter,  and  I  want  them 
to  hear  you  play." 

It  was  thoughtlessness  on  the  master's  part; 
that  was  all.  He  did  not  believe  that  Martha 
could  be  very  ill;  but  he  would  have  reconsidered 
his  demand  if  he  could  have  seen  on  Ben's  face 
the  look  of  pain  which  the  darkness  hid. 

"You'll  send  de  doctah  right  away,  Mas'  ?" 
i54 


The  Memory  of  Martha 

"Oh,  yes;  I'll  send  him  down.  Don't  forget 
to  come  up." 

"I  won't  fu'git,"  said  Ben  as  he  turned  away. 
But  he  did  not  pick  up  his  banjo  to  go  to  the 
big  house  until  the  plantation  doctor  had  come 
and  given  Martha  something  to  ease  her.  Then 
he  said:  "I's  got  to  go  up  to  de  big  house, 
Marfy;  I  be  back  putty  soon." 

"Don'  you  hu'y  thoo  on  my  'count.  You  go 
'long,  an'  gin  Mas'  Tawm  good  measure,  you 
hyeah?" 

"Quit  yo'  bossin,"  said  Ben,  a  little  more 
cheerfully;  "I  got  you  whah  you  cain't  move,  an' 
ef  you  give  me  any  o'  yo'  back  talk  I  'low  I  frail 
you  monst'ous." 

Martha  chuckled  a  "go  'long,"  and  Ben  went 
lingeringly  out  of  the  door,  the  banjo  in  its 
ragged  cover  under  his  arm. 

The  plantation's  boasted  musician  played 
badly  that  night.  Colonel  Tom  Curtis  wondered 
what  was  the  matter  with  him,  and  Mr.  Lewis 
told  his  daughter  as  he  drove  away  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  Colonel's  famous  banjoist  had  been 
overrated.  But  who  could  play  reels  and  jigs 
with  the  proper  swing  when  before  his  eyes  was 
i55 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

the  picture  of  a  smoky  cabin  room,  and  on  the 
bed  in  it  a  sick  wife,  the  wife  of  forty  years? 

The  black  man  hurried  back  to  his  cabin  where 
Martha  was  dozing.  She  awoke  at  his  step. 

''Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  hu'y  back  hyeah?" 
she  asked. 

"I  ain't  nevah  hu'ied.  I  reckon  I  gin  'em  all 
de  music  dey  wanted,"  Ben  answered  a  little 
sheepishly.  He  knew  that  he  had  not  exactly 
covered  himself  with  glory.  "How's  you  feel- 
in'  ?"  he  added. 

"  'Bout  de  same.  I  got  kin'  of  a  mis'ry  in  my 
side." 

"I  reckon  you  couldn't  jine  in  de  hymn  to  tek 
de  wickedness  outen  dis  ol'  banjo  ?"  He  looked 
anxiously  at  her. 

"I  don'  know  'bout  j'inin'  in,  but  you  go  'long 
an'  play  anyhow.  Ef  I  feel  lak  journeyin'  wid 
you  I  fin'  you  somewhar  on  de  road." 

The  banjo  began  to  sing,  and  when  the  hymn 
was  half  through  Martha's  voice,  not  so  strong 
and  full  as  usual,  but  trembling  with  a  new 
pathos,  joined  in  and  went  on  to  the  end.  Then 
Ben  put  up  the  banjo  and  went  to  his  rest. 

The  next  day  Martha  was  no  better,  and  the 
same  the  next.  Her  mistress  came  down  to  see 
156 


The  Memory  of  Martha 

her,  and  delegated  one  of  the  other  servants  to 
be  with  her  through  the  day  and  to  get  Ben's 
meals.  The  old  man  himself  was  her  close 
attendant  in  the  evenings,  and  he  waited  on  her 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman.  He  varied 
his  duties  as  nurse  by  playing  to  her,  sometimes 
some  lively,  cheerful  bit,  but  more  often  the 
hymns  she  loved  but  was  now  too  weak  to  fol 
low. 

It  gave  him  an  aching  pleasure  at  his  heart  to 
see  how  she  hung  on  his  music.  It  seemed  to 
have  become  her  very  life.  He  would  play  for 
no  one  else  now,  and  the  little  space  before  his 
door  held  his  audience  of  white  and  black  chil 
dren  no  more.  They  still  came,  but  the  cabin 
door  was  inhospitably  shut,  and  they  went  away 
whispering  among  themselves,  "Aunt  Martha's, 
sick." 

Little  Liz,  who  was  a  very  wise  pickaninny, 
once  added,  "Yes,  Aunt  Marfy's  sick,  an'  my 
mammy  says  she  ain'  never  gwine  to  git  up  no 
mo'."  Another  child  had  echoed  "Never!"  in 
the  hushed,  awe-struck  tones  which  children  use 
in  the  presence  of  the  great  mystery. 

Liz's  mother  was  right.  Ben's  Martha  was 
never  to  get  up  again.  One  night  during  a  pause 
157 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

in  his  playing  she  whispered,  "Play  'Ha'k !  Pom 
de  Tomb.'  '  He  turned  into  the  hymn,  and  her 
voice,  quavering  and  weak,  joined  in.  Ben 
started,  for  she  had  not  tried  to  sing  for  so 
long.  He  wondered  if  it  wasn't  a  token.  In  the 
midst  of  the  hymn  she  stopped,  but  he  played 
on  to  the  end  of  the  verse.  Then  he  got  up  and 
looked  at  her. 

Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  there  was  a  smile 
on  her  face — a  smile  that  Ben  knew  was  not  of 
earth.  He  called  her,  but  she  did  not  answer. 
He  put  his  hand  upon  her  head,  but  she  lay  very 
still,  and  then  he  knelt  and  buried  his  head  in 
the  bedclothes,  giving  himself  up  to  all  the  tragic 
violence  of  an  old  man's  grief. 

"Marfy!  Marfy!  Marfy!"  he  called.  "What 
you  want  to  leave  me  fu'  ?  Marfy,  wait;  I  ain't 
gwine  be  long." 

His  cries  aroused  the  quarters,  and  the  neigh 
bors  came  flocking  in.  Ben  was  hustled  out  of 
the  way,  the  news  carried  to  the  big  house,  and 
preparations  made  for  the  burying. 

Ben  took  his  banjo.  He  looked  at  it  fondly, 
patted  it,  and,  placing  it  in  its  covering,  put  it 
on  the  highest  shelf  in  the  cabin. 

158 


The  Memory  of  Martha 

"Brothah  Ben  allus  was  a  mos'  p'opah  an' 
'sponsible  so't  o'  man,"  said  Liz's  mother  as  she 
saw  him  do  it.  "Now,  dat's  what  I  call  showin' 
'spec'  to  Sis  Marfy,  puttin'  his  banjo  up  in  de 
ve'y  place  whah  it'll  get  all  dus'.  Brothah  Ben 
sho  is  diff'ent  f om  any  husban'  I  evah  had." 
She  had  just  provided  Liz  with  a  third  step 
father. 

On  many  evenings  after  Martha  had  been 
laid  away,  the  children,  seeing  Ben  come  and  sit 
outside  his  cabin  door,  would  gather  around, 
waiting,  and  hoping  that  the  banjo  would  be 
brought  out,  but  they  were  always  doomed  to 
disappointment.  On  the  high  shelf  the  old  banjo 
still  reposed,  gathering  dust. 

Finally  one  of  the  youngsters,  bolder  than  the 
rest,  spoke:  "Ain't  you  gwine  play  no  mo', 
Uncle  Ben?"  and  received  a  sad  shake  of  the 
head  in  reply,  and  a  laconic  "Nope." 

This  remark  Liz  dutifully  reported  to  her 
mother.  "No,  o'  co'se  not,"  said  that  wise 
woman  with  emphasis;  "o'  co'se  Brothah  Ben 
ain'  gwine  play  no  mo' ;  not  right  now,  leas' ways; 
an'  don'  you  go  dah  pesterin'  him,  nuther,  Liz. 
You  be  perlite  an'  'spectable  to  him,  an'  make  yo' 
'bejunce  when  you  pass." 
159 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

The  child's  wise  mother  had  just  dispensed 
with  her  latest  stepfather. 

The  children  were  not  the  only  ones  who 
attempted  to  draw  old  Ben  back  to  his  music. 
Even  his  master  had  a  word  of  protest.  "I  tell 
you,  Ben,  we  miss  your  banjo, "  he  said.  "I  wish 
you  would  come  up  and  play  for  us  sometime." 

"I'd  lak  to,  Mastah,  I'd  lak  to;  but  evah  time 
I  think  erbout  playin'  I  kin  des  see  huh  up  dah 
an'  hyeah  de  kin'  o'  music  she's  a-listenin'  to,  an' 
I  ain't  got  no  haht  fu'  dat  oP  banjo  no  mo'." 

The  old  man  looked  up  at  his  master  so  piti 
fully  that  he  desisted. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  he  said,  "if  you  feel  that 
way  about  it." 

As  soon  as  it  became  known  that  the  master 
wanted  to  hear  the  old  banjo  again,  every  negro 
on  the  plantation  was  urging  the  old  man  to  play 
in  order  to  say  that  his  persuasion  had  given  the 
master  pleasure.  None,  though,  went  to  the  old 
man's  cabin  with  such  confidence  of  success  as  did 
Mary,  the  mother  of  Liz. 

"O'  co'se,  he  wa'n't  gwine  play  den,"  she  said 
as  she  adjusted  a  ribbon;  "he  was  a  mo'nin';  but 
now — hit's  diffe'nt,"  and  she  smiled  back  at  her 
self  in  the  piece  of  broken  mirror. 

160 


The  Memory  of  Martha 

She  sighed  very  tactfully  as  she  settled  herself 
on  old  Ben's  doorstep. 

"I  nevah  come  'long  hyeah,"  she  said  "widout 
thinkin'  'bout  Sis  Marfy.  Me  an'  huh  was  gret 
frien's,  an'  a  moughty  good  frien'  she  was." 

Ben  shook  his  head  affirmatively.  Mary 
smoothed  her  ribbons  and  continued: 

"I  ust  to  often  come  an'  set  in  my  do'  w'en 
you'd  be  a-playin'  to  huh.  I  was  des'  sayin'  to 
myse'f  de  othah  day  how  I  would  lak  to  hyeah 
dat  ol'  banjo  ag'in."  She  paused.  "  'Pears  lak 
Sis  Marfy  'd  be  right  nigh." 

Ben  said  nothing.  She  leaned  over  until  her 
warm  brown  cheek  touched  his  knee.  "Won't 
you  play  fu'  me,  Brothah  Ben?"  she  asked  plead 
ingly.  "Des'  to  bring  back  de  membry  o'  Sis 
Marfy?" 

The  old  man  turned  two  angry  eyes  upon  her. 
"I  don'  need  to  play,"  he  said,  'an'  I  ain'  gwine- 
ter.  Sis  Marfy's  membry's  hyeah,"  and  tapping 
his  breast  he  walked  into  his  cabin,  leaving  Mary 
to  take  her  leave  as  best  she  could. 

It  was  several  months  after  this  that  a  number 

of  young  people  came  from  the  North  to  visit 

the  young  master,  Robert  Curtis.     It  was  on  the 

second  evening  of  their  stay  that  young  Eldridge 

161 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

said,  "Look  here,  Colonel  Curtis,  my  father 
visited  your  plantation  years  ago,  and  he  told  me 
of  a  wonderful  banjoist  you  had,  and  said  if  I 
ever  came  here  to  be  sure  to  hear  him  if  he  was 
alive.  Is  he?" 

"You  mean  old  Ben?  Yes,  he's  still  living, 
but  the  death  of  his  wife  rather  sent  him  daft, 
and  he  hasn't  played  for  several  years." 

"Pshaw,  I'm  sorry.  We  laughed  at  father's 
enthusiasm  over  him,  because  we  thought  he 
overrated  his  powers." 

"I  reckon  not.    He  was  truly  wonderful." 

"Don't  you  think  you  can  stir  him  up?" 

"Oh,  do,  Col.  Curtis,"  chorused  a  number  of 
voices. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Colonel,  "but 
come  with  me  and  I'll  try." 

The  young  people  took  their  way  to  the  cabin, 
where  old  Ben  occupied  his  accustomed  place 
before  the  door. 

"Uncle  Ben,"  said  the  master,  "here  are  some 
friends  of  mine  from  the  North  who  are  anxious 
to  hear  you  play,  and  I  knew  you'd  break  your 
rule  for  me." 

"Chile,  honey "  began  the  old  man. 

But  Robert,  his  young  master,  interrupted 
him.  "I'm  not  going  to  let  you  say  no,"  and 

162 


The  Memory  of  Martha 

he  hurried  past  Uncle  Ben  into  the  cabin.  He 
came  out,  brushing  the  banjo  and  saying, 
"Whew,  the  dust!" 

The  old  man  sat  dazed  as  the  instrument  was 
thrust  into  his  hand.  He  looked  pitifully  into  the 
faces  about  him,  but  they  were  all  expectancy. 
Then  his  fingers  wandered  to  the  neck,  and  he 
tuned  the  old  banjo.  Then  he  began  to  play. 
He  seemed  inspired.  His  listeners  stood  trans 
fixed. 

From  piece  to  piece  he  glided,  pouring  out 
the  music  in  a  silver  stream.  His  old  fingers 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  their  stiffness  as  they 
flew  over  the  familiar  strings.  For  nearly  an 
hour  he  played  and  then  abruptly  stopped.  The 
applause  was  generous  and  real,  but  the  old  man 
only  smiled  sadly,  and  with  a  far-away  look  in 
his  eyes. 

As  they  turned  away,  somewhat  awed  by  his 
manner,  they  heard  him  begin  to  play  softly  an 
old  hymn.  It  was  "Hark!  From  the  Tomb." 

He  stopped  when  but  half  through,  and  Rob 
ert  returned  to  ask  him  to  finish,  but  his  head  had 
fallen  forward  close  against  the  banjo's  neck, 
and  there  was  a  smile  on  his  face,  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  had  a  sweet  memory  of  Martha. 
163 


WHO  STAND  FOR  THE  GODS. 

There  was  a  warm  flush  of  anger  on  Robert 
Curtis'  face  as  he  ran  down  the  steps  of  the  old 
Stuart  mansion.  Every  one  said  of  this  young 
man  that  he  possessed  in  a  marked  degree  the 
high  temper  for  which  hfs  family  was  noted. 
And  one  looking  at  him  that  night  would  have 
said  that  this  temper  had  been  roused  to  the  ut 
most. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  Robert  Curtis  had 
ridden  away  from  the  Stuarts'  in  anger.  Emily 
Stuart  was  a  high-strung  girl,  independent,  and 
impatient  of  control,  and  their  disagreements 
had  been  many.  But  they  had  never  gone  so 
far  as  this  one,  and  they  had  somehow  always 
blown  over.  This  time  the  young  lover  had 
carried  away  in  his  pocket  the  ring  with  which 
they  had  plighted  their  troth,  and  had  gone  away 
vowing  never  to  darken  those  doors  again,  and 
Emily  had  been  exasperatingly  polite  and  cool, 
though  her  eyes  were  flashing  as  she  assured  him 
how  little  she  ever  wanted  to  look  upon  his  face 
again. 

It  may  have  been  the  strain  of  keeping  this 
self-possession  that  made  her  break  down  so 

164 


Who  Stand  for  the  Gods 

completely  as  soon  as  her  lover  was  out  of  sight. 
That  she  did  break  down  is  beyond  dispute,  for 
when  Dely  came  in  with  a  very  much  disordered 
waistband  she  found  her  mistress  in  tears. 

With  the  quick  sympathy  and  easy  familiarity 
of  a  favorite  servant  she  ran  to  her  mistress  ex 
claiming,  "La,  Miss  Em'ly,  whut's  de  mattah?" 

Her  Miss  Emily  waved  her  away  silently,  and 
drying  her  eyes  stood  up  dramatically. 

"Dely,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Curtis  will  not  come 
here  any  more  after  to-day.  Certain  things  have 
made  it  impossible.  I  know  that  you  and  Ike  are 
interested  in  each  other,  and  I  do  not  want  the 
changed  relations  between  Mr.  Curtis  and  me  to 
make  any  difference  to  you  and  Ike." 

"La,  Miss  Em'ly,"  said  Dely,  surreptitiously 
straightening  her  waistband,  "I  don'  keer  nuffin' 
'bout  Ike;  he  ain't  nuffin'  'tall  to  me." 

"Don't  fib,  Dely,"  said  Emily  impressively. 

"  'Claih  to  goodness,  Miss  Em'ly,  I  ain't  fib- 
bin'  ;  but  even  if  Ike  was  anyt'ing  to  me  you  know 
I  wa'n't  nevah  'spectin'  to  go  ovah  to  the  Cu'tis 
plantatin  'ceptin'  wid  you,  w'en  you  an'  Mas' 
Bob " 

"That  will  do,  Dely."     Emliy  caught  up  her 
handkerchief  and  hurried  from  the  room. 
165 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Po'  Miss  Em'ly,"  soliloquized  Dely;  "she 
des  natchully  breakin'  huh  hea't  now,  but  she 
ain't  gwine  let  on.  Ike,  indeed !  I  ain't  bothahed 
'bout  Ike,"  and  then  she  added,  smiling  softly, 
"That  scamp's  des  de  same  ez  a  b'ah;  he  mighty 
nigh  ruined  my  ap'on  at  de  wais'." 

Robert  Curtis  was  crossing  the  footbridge 
which  separated  the  Curtis  and  Stuart  farther 
fields  before  Ike  rode  up  abreast  of  him.  The 
bay  mare  was  covered  with  dust  and  foam,  and  a 
heavy  scowl  lay  darkly  on  the  young  man's  face. 

Finding  his  horse  blown  by  her  hard  gallop, 
the  white  man  drew  rein,  and  they  rode  along 
more  slowly,  but  in  silence.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken  until  they  alighted,  and  the  master  tossed 
the  reins  to  his  servant. 

"Well,"  he  said  bitterly,  "when  you  go  to  the 
Stuarts'  again,  Ike,  you'll  have  to  go  alone." 

"Then  I  won't  go,"  said  Ike  promptly. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will;  you're  fool  enough  to  be 
hanging  around  a  woman's  skirts,  too;  you'll 

go." 

"Whaih  you  don'  go,  I  don'  go." 

"Well,  I  don't  go  to  the  Stuarts'  any  more, 
that's  one  thing  certain."  Robert  was  very 
young. 

166 


Who  Stand  for  the  Gods 

"Then  I  don'  go,"  returned  Ike  doggedly; 
"don'  you  reckon  I  got  some  fambly  feelin's?" 

The  young  man's  quick  anger  was  melting  in 
its  own  heat,  and  he  laughed  in  spite  of  himself 
as  he  replied:  "Neither  family  feelings  nor  any 
thing  else  count  for  much  when  there's  a  woman 
in  the  case." 

"Now,  I  des  wonder,"  said  Ike,  as  he  led  the 
horses  away  and  turned  them  over  to  a  stable 
boy,  "I  des  wonder  how  long  this  hyeah  thing's 
goin'  on?  De  las'  time  they  fell  out  fu'  evah  hit 
was  fou'  whole  days  befo'  he  give  in.  I  reckon 
this  time  it  might  run  to  be  a  week." 

He  might  have  gone  on  deluding  himself  thus 
if  he  had  not  suddenly  awakened  to  the  fact  that 
more  than  the  week  he  had  set  as  the  limit  of 
the  estrangement  had  passed  and  he  had  not  yet 
been  commanded  to  saddle  a  horse  and  ride  over 
to  the  Stuarts'  with  the  note  that  invariably 
brought  reconciliation  and  happiness. 

He  felt  disturbed  in  his  mind,  and  his  trouble 
visibly  increased  when,  on  the  next  day,  which 
was  Sunday,  Quin,  who  was  his  rival  in  every 
thing,  dressed  himself  with  more  than  ordinary 
care  and  took  his  way  toward  the  Stuarts'. 
167 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Whut's  de  mattah  wid  you,  Ike?"  asked  one 
of  the  house  boys  next  day;  uyou  goin'  to  let 
Quin  cut  you  out?  He  was  ovah  to  Stua'ts' 
yistiddy,  an'  he  say  he  had  a  ta'in'  down  time  wid 
Miss  Dely." 

"Oh,  I  don'  reckon  anybody's  goin'  to  cut  me 
out." 

"Bettah  not  be  so  sho,"  said  the  boy;  ubettah 
look  out." 

This  was  too  much  for  Ike.  He  had  been 
wavering;  now  his  determination  gave  way,  yet 
he  tried  to  delude  himself. 

"Hit's  a  shame,"  he  said.  "I  des  know  Mas' 
Bob  is  bre'kin'  his  hea't  to  git  back  to  Miss 
Em'ly,  an'  hit  do  seem  lak  somep'n  'oughter  be 
done  to  gin  him  a  chancet." 

It  needed  only  the  visit  from  his  master  that 
afternoon  to  decide  him.  He  was  out  on  the 
back  veranda  cleaning  shoes,  when  his  master 
came  and  stood  in  front  of  him,  flicking  his 
boots  with  his  riding-whip. 

"Ah,  Ike,  you  haven't  been  over  to  Mr.  Stu 
art's  lately." 

"No,  suh;  co'se  not;  I  ain't  been  ovah." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  I'd  do  that,  Ike.  Don't 
let  my  affair  keep  you  away;  you  go  on  and  see 

168 


Who  Stand  for  the  Gods 

her.  You  don't  know;  she  might  be  sick  or 
something,  and  want  to  see  you.  Here's  fifty 
cents;  take  her  something  nice."  And  with  the 
very  erroneous  idea  that  he  had  fooled  both  Ike 
and  himself,  Robert  Curtis  went  down  the  steps 
whistling. 

"What'd  I  tell  you?"  said  Ike,  addressing  the 
shoe  which  sat  upon  his  hand,  and  he  began  to 
hurry. 

Dely  was  sitting  on  the  doorstep  of  her 
mother's  cabin  as  Ike  came  up.  She  pretended 
not  to  see  him,  but  she  was  dressed  as  if  she 
expected  his  coming. 

"Howdy,  Dely;  how  you  this  evenin'?"  said 
Ike. 

"La,  Mistah  Ike,"  said  Dely,  affecting  to  be 
startled,  "I  come  mighty  nigh  not  seein'  you. 
Won't  you  walk  in?" 

"No,  I  des  tek  a  seat  on  de  do'step  hyeah 
'longside  you." 

She  tossed  her  head,  but  made  room  for  him 
on  the  step. 

"I  ain't  seen  you  fu'  sev'al  days." 

"You  wasn'  blin'  ner  lame." 

"No,  but  you  know,"  answered  Ike  rather 
doggedly. 

169 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"I  don'  know  nuffin',"  Dely  returned. 

"I  wasn'  'spected  to  come  alone." 

"Wasyouskeered?" 

"Did  you  want  me  to  come  alone?" 

Dely  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"I  wonder  how  long  this  is  goin'  on?"  pursued 
Ike;  "I'm  gittiri'  mighty  tiahed  of  it." 

"They  ain't  no  tellin'.  Miss  Em'ly  she  mighty 
high-strung." 

"Well,  hit's  a  shame,  fu'  them  two  loves  one 
another,  an'  they  ought  to  be  brought  togethah." 

"Co'se  they  ought;  but  how  anybody  goin'  to 
doit?" 

"You  an'  me  could  try  ef  you  was  willin'." 

"I'd  do  anything  fu'  my  Miss  Em'ly." 

"An'  I'd  do  anything  fu'  Mas'  Bob.  Come 
an'  le's  walk  down  by  de  big  gate  an'  talk  about 
it." 

Dely  rose,  and  together  they  walked  down 
by  the  big  gate,  where  they  stood  in  long  and 
earnest  conversation.  Maybe  it  was  all  about 
their  master's  and  mistress'  love  affair.  But  a 
soft  breeze  was  blowing,  and  the  moon  was  shin 
ing  in  the  way  which  tempts  young  people  to 
consider  their  own  hearts,  however  much  they 
may  be  interested  in  the  hearts  of  others. 

170 


Who  Stand  for  the  Gods 

It  was  some  such  interest  which  ostensibly 
prompted  Robert  Curtis  to  sit  up  for  Ike  that 
night.  Ike  came  into  the  yard  whistling.  His 
master  was  sitting  on  the  porch. 

"Ike,  you  are  happy;  you  must  have  had  a 
good  time." 

Instantly  Ike's  whistle  was  cut  short,  and  the 
late  moonlight  shone  upon  a  very  lugubrious 
countenance  as  he  answered : 

"Sometimes  people  whistles  to  drown  dey  sor- 


rers." 


"Why,  what  sorrows  have  you  got?  Wasn't 
Dely  in  a  pleasant  mood?" 

"Dely's  mighty  'sturbed  'bout  huh  Miss 
Em'ly." 

"About  her  Miss  Emily!"  exclaimed  the 
young  master  in  sudden  excitement;  "what's  the 
matter  with  Miss  Emily?" 

"Oh,  Dely  says  she  des  seems  to  be  a-pinin' 
'bout  somep'n'.  She  don'  eat  an'  she  don'  sleep." 

"Poor  litt—  — "  began  Curtis,  then  he 
checked  himself.  "Hum,"  he  said.  "Well,  good 
night,  Ike." 

When  Ike  had  gone  in,  his  master  went  to 
his  room  and  paced  the  floor  for  a  long  while. 
Then  he  went  out  again  and  walked  up  and  down 

171 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

the  lawn.      uMaybe  I'm  not  treating  her  just 
right,"   he  murmured;    "poor  little  thing,   but 

"  and  he  clenched  his  fist  and  kept  up  his 

walking. 

"Ike  was  here  to-night?"  said  Miss  Emily  to 
Dely  as  the  maid  was  brushing  her  hair  that 
night. 

"Yes'm,  he  was  hyeah." 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  come  up  the  walk  early,  and 
I  didn't  call  you  because  I  knew  you'd  want  to 
talk  to  him,"  she  sighed. 

"Yes'm,  he  wanted  to  talk  mighty  bad.  He 
feelin'  mighty  'sturbed  'bout  his  Mas'  Bob." 

The  long,  brown  braid  was  quickly  snatched 
out  of  her  hand  as  her  young  mistress  whirled 
swiftly  round. 

"What's  the  matter  with  his  master?" 

"Oh,  Ike  say  he  des  seem  to  pine.  He  don' 
seem  to  eat,  an'  he  don'  sleep." 

Miss  Emily  had  a  sudden  fit  of  dreaming  from 
which  she  awoke  to  say,  "That  will  do,  Dely; 
I  won't  need  you  any  more  to-night."  Then  she 
put  out  her  light  and  leaned  out  of  her  window, 
looking  with  misty  eyes  at  the  stars.  And  some 
thing  she  saw  up  there  in  the  bright  heavens 
made  her  smile  and  sigh  again. 

172 


Who  Stand  for  the  Gods 

It  was  on  the  morrow  that  Dely  told  her  mis 
tress  about  some  wonderful  wild  flowers  that 
were  growing  in  the  west  woods  in  a  certain 
nook,  and  Dely  was  so  much  in  earnest  about  it 
that  her  mistress  finally  consented  to  follow  her 
thither. 

Strange  to  say,  that  same  morning  Ike  accosted 
his  young  master  with,  "Look  hyeah,  Mas'  Bob, 
de  birds  is  sholy  thick  ovah  yondah  in  that 
stretch  o'  beechwoods.  I've  polished  up  the  guns 
fu'  you,  ef  you  want  to  tek  a  shot." 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,  Ike.  We'll  go  for  a 
while." 

It  was  in  this  way — quite  by  accident,  of 
course,  one  looking  for  strange  flowers,  and  the 
other  for  birds — that  Emily  and  Robert,  with 
their  faithful  attendants,  set  out  for  the  same 
stretch  of  woods. 

Miss  Emily  was  quite  despairing  of  ever  find 
ing  the  wonderful  flowers,  and  Ike  was  just  pro 
testing  that  he  himself  had  "seen  them  birds," 
when  all  of  a  sudden  Dely  exclaimed:  "Well, 
la  !  Ef  thaih  ain't  Mas'  Cu'tis." 

Miss  Emily  turned  pale  and  red  by  turns  as 
Robert,  blushing  like  a  girl,  approached  her,  hat 
in  hand. 

173 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Miss  Emily." 

"Mr.  Curtis." 

Then  they  both  turned  to  look  for  their  at 
tendants.  Ike  and  Dely  were  walking  up  a  side 
path  together.  They  both  broke  into  a  laugh 
that  would  not  be  checked. 

"It  would  be  a  shame  to  disturb  them,"  Rob 
ert  went  on  when  he  could  control  himself. 
"Emily,  I've  been  a " 

"Oh,  Robert!" 

"Let  us  take  the  good  that  the  gods  provide." 

"And  they,"  said  Emily,  looking  after  the 
blacks,  "stand  for  the  gods." 


174 


A  LADY  SLIPPER. 

On  that  particular  night  in  June  it  pleased 
Miss  Emily  Stuart  to  be  gracious  to  Nelson 
Spencer.  Robert  Curtis  was  away,  attending 
court  at  the  county  seat,  and  really,  when  one  is 
young  and  beautiful  and  a  woman,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  there  should  be  some  person  upon 
whom  to  try  one's  charms.  So  the  lady  was  gra 
cious  to  her  ardent,  but  oft-rejected  lover.  She 
was  sitting  on  the  step  of  the  high  veranda  and 
he  a  little  below  her.  Her  tiny  foot,  shod  in  the 
daintiest  of  slippers,  swungdangerously  near  him. 
She  knew  that  he  \vas  looking  admiringly  at  the 
glimpse  of  pointed  toe  which  now  and  then  he 
got  from  beneath  her  skirt,  and  it  pleased  her. 
She  was  rather  proud  of  that  pretty,  aristocratic 
foot  of  hers,  not  so  much  because  it  was  pretty 
and  aristocratic  as  because  it  was  hereditary  in 
the  family  and  belonged  by  right  of  birth  to  all 
the  Stuarts. 

It  was  a  warm,  soft  night,  a  night  just  suited 

for  love  and  dreams.     The  sky  like  a  blue-black 

cup  inverted,  seemed  pouring  a  shower  of  gems 

upon  the  earth,  and  the  breeze  was  laden  with 

175 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

the  sweet  smell  of  honeysuckle  and  the  heavier 
odor  of  magnolia  blossoms. 

They  were  not  talking  much  because  it  wasn't 
worth  while.  After  an  extended  period  of  si 
lence  he  looked  up  at  her  and  sighed,  perhaps 
because  he  wanted  to,  maybe  because  he  couldn't 
help  it. 

"What  are  you  sighing  for?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  just  at  the  beauty  of  things." 

"Why,  that  should  make  you  smile." 

"Not  always.  If  there  is  sometimes  a  grief 
too  deep  for  tears,  there  is  at  others  a  joy  too 
great  for  smiles." 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  poet,  Nelson,  you 
are  so  sentimen " 

"Spare  me  that." 

"No  I  shall  not.  You  are  sentimental  to 
the  last  degree." 

"Oh,  well,  I  may  be;  if  it  is  sentimentality 
to  be  willing  to  grovel  in  the  dirt  for  a  lady's 
slipper,  then  I  am  sentimental."  Emily  Stuart 
laughed. 

"You  know  you  would  look  very  ridiculous 
groveling  in  the  dirt.  Would  you  really  do  it 
for  my  slipper?" 

"Yes." 

176 


A  Lady  Slipper 

"I'll  put  you  to  the  .test,  then;  you  shall  have 
my  slipper  when  I  see  you  grovel." 

He  hesitated.  "What,"  she  laughed,  "am  I 
too  literal?" 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  mean  what  I  say,"  and  he 
leaped  from  the  porch  to  the  road  beyond  and 
fell  upon  his  knees  in  the  dust  of  the  carriage 
way. 

The  spectacle  amused  Emily,  and  disgusted 
her  no  little.  A  woman  pretends  that  she  wants 
a  man  to  abase  himself  before  her,  but  she  never 
forgives  him  if  he  does.  While  he  knelt  there  in 
the  road  she  thought  how  differently  Robert 
would  have  acted  under  the  circumstances.  In 
stead  of  groveling,  he  would  probably  have  said, 
"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do,"  and  she  rather  liked  the 
thought  of  his  saying  that.  She  knew  that  so 
far  as  brains  went,  Robert  could  not  compare 
with  Nelson ;  she  knew,  too,  that  the  \visest  man 
has  the  greatest  capacity  for  making  a  fool  of 
himself. 

After  an  interval,  Nelson  arose  from  his  posi 
tion  and  came  back  to  the  veranda. 

"I  claim  my  reward,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  rightly  call  that  grov 
eling?" 

177 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Yes,  without  a  doubt." 

uThen  you  shall  not  go  unrewarded,"  and, 
turning,  she  went  into  the  house  to  return  with  a 
slipper,  a  dainty  little  beribboned  thing,  which 
she  handed  to  him.  She  was  quite  used  to  his 
extravagant  protestations,  and  only  thought  to 
put  a  light  significance  upon  his  words.  She  was 
unprepared,  then,  to  see  him  put  the  slipper  into 
his  pocket  as  if  he  really  meant  to  keep  it. 

The  evening  passed  away,  and  though  they 
talked  much,  no  reference  was  made  to  the  slip 
per  until  he  rose  to  go.  Then  Emily  said,  "Has 
your  desire  for  my  slipper  been  sufficiently  satis 
fied?" 

uOh,  no,"  he  replied,  "I  shall  keep  this  as  the 
outward  sign  and  the  reward  of  my  abasement." 

"You  are  really  not  going  to  keep  it?" 

"Oh,  but  I  am.    You  gave  it  to  me." 

"I  did  not  mean  it  in  that  way." 

"The  sight  of  me  groveling  there  in  the  road 
I  gave  you  to  remember  for  all  time,  and  the 
gift  that  I  ask  in  return  is  a  permanent  one." 

"And  it  is  of  no  use  for  me  to  argue  with 
you?" 

"None." 

"Nor  plead?" 

178 


A  Lady  Slipper 

"No." 

"Very  well,"  said  Emily  with  a  vain  effort  at 
calmness,  "I  wish  you  joy  of  your  treasure. 
Good-night,"  and  she  went  into  the  house.  But 
she  watched  him  from  behind  the  curtain  until 
he  was  quite  gone ;  then  she  came  flying  out  again 
and  made  her  way  hastily  toward  the  quarters 
whither  she  knew  her  maid  Dely  had  gone  to 
spend  the  evening.  When  she  had  brought  her 
to  the  big  house,  she  exclaimed  breathlessly : 
"Oh,  Dely,  Dely,  I  am  in  such  trouble!" 
"Do  tell  we  what  is  de  mattah  now." 

"Oh,  Nelson  Spencer  has  been  here  and " 

"Miss  Em'ly,"  Dely  broke  in,  "you  been  ca'in 
on  wid  dat  man  agin?" 

"Why,  Dely,  how  can  you  say  such  things? 
Carrying  on,  indeed !  I  was  only  trying  to  put 
him  in  his  place  by  making  him  ridiculous,  but  I 
gave  him  my  slipper,  and  he — he  kept  it." 

"He  got  yo'  slippah?  Miss  Em'ly,  don'  tell 
me  dat." 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  Dely,  what  shall  I  do? 
Suppose  Robert  should  go  there  and  see  it  on 
his  bureau  or  somewhere — you  know  they  are 
such  friends — what  would  he  say?  He'd  be 
bound  to  recognize  it,  you  know.  They're  the 

179 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

ones  with  the  silver  buckles  and  satin  bows  that 
he  liked  so  well.  One  could  never  explain  to 
Robert;  he's  so  impetuous.  Delys  don't  stand 
there  that  way.  You  must  help  me." 

"What  shell  I  do,  Miss  Em'ly?  I  reckon 
you'd  bettah  go  an'  have  yo'  pa  frail  dat  slippah 
outen  him." 

uWhat?  Papa?  Why,  I  wouldn't  have  him 
to  know  anything  about  it  for  the  world." 

"Why,  it  ain't  yo'  fault,  Miss  Em'ly;  you 
in  de  rights  of  de  thing." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  know,  but  a  thing  like  that  is 
so  hard  to  explain.  Dely,  you  must  get  that  slip- 
per." 

"HowI'mgoin'to?" 

"I  don't  know;  you'll  have  to  find  some  way. 
You'll  find  some  way  to  get  it  before  Robert 
comes.  You  will,  won't  you,  Dely?" 

"When  do  Mas'  Robert  come?" 

"He'll  surely  be  home  in  a  couple  of  days." 

"An  he's  mighty  cu'ious,  ain't  he?" 

"If  he  should  happen  to  come  across  that  slip 
per  in  Nelson  Spencer's  room,  all  would  be  over 
between  us.  Oh,  Dely,  you  must  find  some  way." 

"Mas'  Nelson  Spencah  is  right  sma't  boas'ful, 
am  the?" 

180 


A  Lady  Slipper 

"Oh,  Dely." 

"You  don't  reckon  he'd  show  it  to  Mas'  Rob 
ert,  do  you?" 

"Dely,  you're  saying  everything  to  frighten 
me;  don't  talk  that  way." 

"Miss  Em'ly,  de  truth  is  de  light;  but  nevah 
min',  I'll  try  an'  git  dat  slippah  fu'  you." 

"Oh,  Dely,  and  you  shall  have  that  blue 
sprigged  muslin  dress  of  mine  you  liked  so 
much." 

Dely's  eyes  gleamed  but  she  answered,  "Nevah 
you  min'  about  de  dress,  Miss  Em'ly.  What  we 
wants  is  de  slippah,"  and  the  maid  departed  to 
think. 

For  a  long  while  she  thought  of  everything  she 
knew,  and  canvassed  every  resource  within  her 
power.  Of  course,  she  might  make  love  to  Har 
ry,  Spencer's  valet,  and  have  him  get  the  prize 
for  her,  but  then  she  knew  that  Ike  would  be  sure 
to  find  that  out  and  get  angry  with  her.  She 
might  appeal  to  Carrie,  one  of  the  Spencer  house 
hold,  but  she  knew  that  Carrie  hated  her  and 
would  do  anything  rather  than  gratify  her  slight 
est  wish,  for  Carrie  herself  had  an  eye  on  Ike. 
181 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Then  might  she  not  steal  it  herself?  But  how  to 
effect  an  entrance  to  the  room  of  her  mistress' 
enemy  ? 

"Lawd  bless  me,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  her 
eyes  brightening,  "I  done  fu'git  young  Mas' 
Roger.  I  spec  he'll  be  snoopin'  roun'  some  place 
to-morrer." 

Now  Dely  knew  that  Nelson  Spencer  had  a 
brother,  a  reckless,  disobedient  boy,  who  had  just 
arrived  at  the  unspeakable  age.  Something  in 
this  knowledge  or  rather  in  the  sudden  recollec 
tion,  sent  her  flying  to  the  kitchen,  where  for 
something  over  two  hours  she  braved  Aunt  Hes 
ter's  maledictions  while  she  baked  heap  upon 
heap  of  crisp  sweet  cakes. 

When,  hot  and  tired,  she  had  finished  and 
placed  them  in  a  cloth-covered  jar,  she  chuckled 
to  herself  with  the  remark,  "Now,  ef  dat  don't 
fetch  dat  slippah,  I  reckon  Miss  Em'ly  bettah 
look  out  fu'  anothah  gallant;  but  I  know  dat 
boy." 

On  the  following  morning,  the  maid,  carrying 
a  bulging  bag,  wandered  out  in  the  direction  of 
the  Spencer  place,  hoping  to  meet  young  Roger 
somewhere  in  the  open  air,  on  his  pony  or  nosing 
about  the  woods  on  foot.  She  had  said  that  she 
knew  that  boy,  and  she  did.  Roger  was  a  boy 

182 


A  Lady  Slipper 

with  a  precocious  appetite.  He  might  be  back 
ward  in  everything  else,  but  his  ability  to  con 
sume  food  was  large  beyond  his  years.  He  lived 
to  eat.  He  went  into  the  house  to  browse,  and 
came  out  of  it  to  forage.  He  was  insatiable. 
When  kitchen  and  orchard  had  done  their  part 
in  vain,  he  had  recourse  to  roots  of  the  field  and 
strange,  unaccountable  plants  which  would  have 
proved  his  death  but  for  the  intervention  of  that 
Providence  which  is  popularly  supposed  to  take 
care  of  three  certain  irresponsible  classes  of  hu 
manity. 

Dely  was  not  mistaken  in  thinking  he  would 
be  "snooping  about"  somewhere,  for  it  was  not 
long  before  she  saw  him  walking  along  the  road 
munching  an  apple  and  looking  for  more  food. 
She  hastened  to  catch  up  with  him,  and,  like  a 
sensible  girl,  approached  him  from  the  wind 
ward  side. 

"Howdy,  Roger?"  said  Dely  invitingly. 

"Hullo,  Dely." 

"Whaih  you  goin'?" 

"I  don'  know;  where  are  you  goin'?"  eyeing 
the  bag.  Dely  must  have  put  ginger  into  those 
sweet  cakes  and  Roger's  scent  was  keen. 

"Oh,  I'm  jest  walkin'  erroun'." 
183 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"What  you  got  in  your  bag?" 

uNow  jest  listen  at  dat  chile,"  exclaimed  Dely 
with  a  well-feigned  surprise  and  admiration. 
"Now  who'd  a  thought  you'd  tek  notice  o'  dis 
hyeah  ol'  bag.  Nev'  you  min'  what  I  got  in  dis 
bag." 

"Seems  like  I  smell  somethin'  good." 

"Don'  bothah  me,  Roger;  I  ain't  got  no  time 
to  fool  wid  you.  Seems  to  me  lak  you  always 
want  to  be  eatin'  some'p'n." 

"Then  it  is  eatin',  Dely?" 

"Who  said  so?  Dat's  what  I  want  to  know; 
who  said  so?" 

"Why,  you  did,  you  did,  that's  who,"  Roger 
cried  gleefully. 

"Did  I?  Well,  la  sakes!  Who'd  'a'  evah 
thought  o'  me  givin'  myself  away  dat  away?  I 
mus'  be  gittin'  right  rattle-brained.  I  don' 
b'lieve  I  said  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did.    Let's  see,  Dely.    Do  let's 


see." 


"Oh,  I  dassent,"  said  the  dissembler.     "Hit's 
some'p'n  fine." 

Roger  fairly  danced  with  excitement.     "Do, 
do,"  he  pleaded;  "just  one  little  peep." 

"I'm  feared  you'll  want  to  eat  some." 
184 


A  Lady  Slipper 

"Oh,  no,  I  won't.     Please  let  me  look?" 

Dely  carefully  opened  the  mouth  of  the  bag 
and  slowly  inclined  it  toward  the  eager  boy. 
Even  before  the  brown  beauty  of  the  cakes  broke 
on  the  boy's  sight  the  fragrant  odor  of  them  had 
reached  his  nostrils.  Then  he  saw  them.  Just 
one  flash  of  russet  and  gold  and  the  maid  closed 
the  bag  with  a  jerk,  but  not  before  she  was  aware 
that  she  had  a  willing  slave  at  her  feet. 

"Oh,  Dely!"  the  boy  gasped. 

"Well,  I  mus'  be  gittin'  'long  now." 

"Dely,  just  one.    Oh,  Dely!" 

"Now  what'd  I  tell  you?  Didn't  I  say  you'd 
be  wantin'  one  ?  I  cain't  stop  to  bothah  wid  you. 
Dese  is  luck  cakes." 

"  Luck  cakes?"  Roger's  curiosity  for  the  mo 
ment  almost  overcame  his  hunger.  "What's  luck 
cakes?" 

Miss  Emily's  diplomat  took  one  of  them  from 
the  bag. 

"You  see  dis  hyeah  cake,"  she  said,  holding 
it  dangerously  near  Roger's  nose,  while  his  hands 
twitched,  "you  see  dis  hyeah  cake.  Well,  ef  you 
go  out  of  a  mornin'  wid  a  bag  of  dese  an'  ef  any 
body  can  bring  you  a  unmatched  slippah  befo' 
dey's  all  et  up,  you  has  luck  fu'  de  rest  o'  yo'  life, 
185 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

an'  de  pusson  what  brings  de  slippah  gits  de  rest 
o'  de  cakes." 

"Gets  them  all,  Dely?"  asked  Roger  faintly. 

"All  dat's  lef." 

"Ain't  you  eatin'  yourself,  Dely?" 

"No,  I  ain't  'lowed  to  eat  'em.  It'll  spile  de 
chawm." 

Just  then  Dely  let  the  golden  cake  drop  in  his 
hand.  When  the  last  crumb  had  disappeared  he 
asked,  "Dely,  what's  an  unmatched  slipper?" 

"Why,  if  s  one  dat  ain't  got  no  mate,  of  cou'se. 
Jest  a  one-footed  slippah." 

"Oh,  I  can  get  you  one.'1 

"You!     Deve'y  ideeh!" 

"Yes,  I  can,  too;  mamma  has  lots  of  odd 


ones." 


"No,  no,"  said  Dely  hastily,  "you  musn't  git 
yo'  mammy's.  No  'ndeedy.  Dat  'u'd  spile  de 
chawm." 

"Charms  are  funny  things,  ain't  they?"  said 
the  boy. 

"Mighty  funny,  mighty  funny.  You  nevah 
know  whaih  dey  goin'  to  break  out.  But  'bout 
dis  chawm,"  and  she  handed  him  another  cake, 
"you  musn't  git  de  slippah  of  no  lady  what  be 
longs  to  you,  ner  of  no  man,  ner  you  musn't  let 

186 


A  Lady  Slipper 

nobody  know  dat  you  teken'  it,  fu'  dat  'u'd  break 
de  chawm,  too.  De  bes'  way  is  to  go  in  yo' 
brothah  Nelson's  room  an'  look  erroun'  right 
sha'p,  an'  mebbe  you  might  fin'  a  little  weenchy 
slippah  wid  ribbons  er  some'p'n  on  it,  an'  dat'll 
be  de  luck  slippah." 

"Oh,"    exclaimed    Roger,     "I    know    there 
couldn't  be  such  a  slipper  in  brother  Nelson's 


room." 


Dely  paused  dramatically  and  closed  her  bag. 
"Well,  I  got  to  be  goin',"  she  said.  "I  mus'  fin' 
somebody  else  to  bring  me  de  luck  slippah." 

"I'll  go,  Dely,  I'll  go,"  cried  Roger,  starting; 
"but  Dely,  promise  you  won't  let  anybody  else 
eat  those  cakes.  It  might  spoil  the  charm." 

"Well,  I'll  give  you  anothah  one,  jes'  fu' 
strengf,"  and  she  laughed  a  laugh  of  triumph  as 
the  boy  sped  away. 

"I  'low  ef  dey's  any  slippah  thaih  he'll  fin'  it, 
'long  ez  he  smell  dese  hyeah  cakes  in  his  min'." 

Dely  had  not  long  to  wait  for  her  courier. 
Pretty  soon  he  came  bounding  toward  her  waving 
something  in  his  hand.  He  was  radiant. 

"I  found  it,  Dely,  I  found  it,  just  as  you  said. 
It  was  on  the  bureau.  Now  I  may  have  the 
cakes,  mayn't  I?" 

187 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"It's  de  luck  slippah,  thank  goodness,/'  said 
Dely  solemnly  as  she  eagerly  clutched  the  missing 
piece  of  foot-wear. 

"Now  I  may  have  the  cakes,  mayn't  I?" 
Roger  was  dancing  again. 

"Yes,  ef  you'll  promise  you'll  never,  never 
tell,"  said  Dely,  "so's  't'll  not  break  de  chawm." 

"Hope  m'  die,  Dely." 

Then  she  poured  the  cakes  on  the  ground  be 
side  him,  and,  leaving  him  to  his  joy,  went  home 
laughing  to  her  mistress. 

"How  did  you  get  it,  Dely?"  asked  her  mis 
tress,  clasping  her  accusing  shoe. 

"Oh,  I  wo'ked  my  chawms,"  Dely  replied. 

Miss  Emily  was  walking  along  the  road  that 
evening  with  thoughtful  eyes  cast  on  the  ground. 
She  knew  that  Nelson  Spencer  was  behind  her. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  he  asked  as  he 
overtook  her. 

"A  flower,"  she  said. 

"A  flower !     What  particular  one  ?" 

"A  lady-slipper." 

"Aren't  you  a  little  far  south  for  it?"  His 
house  was  to  the  north. 

"I  think  I  have  found  it,"  she  said,  facing  him 
and  planting  both  feet  firmly  within  sight. 

188 


*f± 


/ 

KJ^jsMifr 


'I    THINK    I    HAVE    FOUND    IT,      SHE    SAID 


A  Lady  Slipper 

Spencer  looked  down,  and,  bowing  low,  passed 
on,  but  she  could  see  the  flush  that  started  in  his 
brow,  spreading  from  cheek  to  neck,  and  she 
laughed  cheerily. 

Nelson  Spencer  went  home  to  say  unrepeat 
able  things  to  his  valet,  the  butler,  the  house 
keeper  and  Carrie  the  maid,  in  fact,  to  every 
body  except  Roger,  who  was,  at  the  time,  suffer 
ing  the  pangs  of  precocious  indigestion. 


189 


A  BLESSED  DECEIT. 

As  Martha  said,  "it  warn't  long  o'  any  sma't- 
ness  dat  de  rapscallion  evah  showed,  but  des 
'long  o'  his  bein'  borned  'bout  de  same  time  ez 
young  mastah  dat  Lucius  got  tuk  into  de  big 
house."  But  Martha's  word  is  hardly  to  be 
taken,  for  she  had  a  mighty  likely  little  picka 
ninny  of  her  own  who  was  overlooked  when  the 
Daniels  were  looking  about  for  a  companion  for 
the  little  toddler,  their  one  child.  Martha  might 
have  been  envious.  However,  it  is  true  that  Lu 
cius  was  born  about  the  same  time  that  his  young 
Master  Robert  was,  and  it  is  just  possible  that 
that  might  have  had  something  to  do  with  his 
appointment,  although  he  was  as  smart  and  likely 
a  little  darkey  as  ever  cracked  his  heels  on  a  Vir 
ginia  plantation.  Years  after,  people  wondered 
why  that  black  boy  with  the  scarred  face  and 
hands  so  often  rode  in  the  Daniels'  carriage,  did 
so  little  work,  and  was  better  dressed  than  most 
white  men.  But  the  story  was  not  told  them ;  it 
touched  too  tender  a  spot  in  the  hearts  of  all  who 
knew.  But  memory  deals  gently  with  old 
190 


A  Blessed  Deceit 

wounds,  and  the  balm  of  time  softens  the  keenest 
sorrow. 

Lucius  first  came  to  the  notice  of  Mr.  Daniels 
when  as  a  two-year-old  pickaninny  he  was  rolling 
and  tumbling  in  the  sand  about  the  quarters. 
Even  then,  he  could  sing  so  well,  and  was  such  a 
cheerful  and  good-natured,  bright  little  scamp 
that  his  master  stood  and  watched  him  in  delight. 
Then  he  asked  Susan  how  old  he  was,  and  she 
answered,  "La,  Mas'  Stone,  Lucius  he  'bout 
two  years  old  now,  don't  you  ricollec'  ?  He  born 
'bout  de  same  time  dat  little  Mas'  Robert  came  to 
you-alls."  The  master's  eyes  sparkled,  and  he 
tapped  the  black  baby  on  the  head.  His  caress 
was  immediately  responded  to  by  a  caper  of  en 
joyment  on  the  youngster's  part.  Stone  Daniels 
laughed  aloud,  and  said,  "Wash  him,  Susan,  and 
I'll  send  something  down  from  the  house  by  Lou, 
then  dress  him,  and  send  him  on  up."  He  turned 
away,  and  Susan,  her  heart  bounding  with  joy, 
seized  the  baby  in  her  arms  and  covered  his  round 
black  body  with  kisses.  This  was  a  very  easy 
matter  for  her  to  do,  for  he  only  wore  one  pitiful 
shift,  and  that  was  in  a  sadly  dilapidated  condi 
tion.  She  hurried  to  fulfil  her  master's  orders. 
191 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

There  was  no  telling  what  great  glory  might 
come  of  such  a  command.  It  was  a  most  won 
derful  blue  dress  with  a  pink  sash  that  Lou 
brought  down  from  the  house,  and  when  young 
Lucius  was  arrayed  therein,  he  was  a  sight  to 
make  any  fond  mother's  heart  proud.  Of  course, 
Lucius  was  rather  a  deep  brunette  to  wear  such 
dainty  colors,  but  plantation  tastes  are  not  very 
scrupulous,  and  then  the  baby  Robert,  whose 
garments  these  had  been,  was  fair,  with  the 
brown  hair  of  the  Daniels,  and  was  dressed  ac 
cordingly. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  child  had  gone  to  the 
big  house,  Susan  received  word  that  he  had  been 
appointed  to  the  high  position  of  companion  in 
chief,  and  amuser  in  general  to  his  young  master, 
and  the  cup  of  her  earthly  joy  was  full.  One 
hour  later,  the  pickaninny  and  his  master  were 
rolling  together  on  the  grass,  throwing  stones 
with  the  vigorous  gusto  of  two  years,  and  the  sad 
marksmanship  of  the  same  age,  and  the  blue 
dress  and  pink  sash  were  of  the  earth,  earthy. 

"I  tell  you,  Eliza,"  said  Stone,  "I  think  I've 
struck  just  about  the  right  thing  in  that  little  ras 
cal.  He'll  take  the  best  care  of  Robert,  and  I 
think  that  playing  like  that  out  in  the  sunshine 

192 


A  Blessed  Deceit 

will  make  our  little  one  stronger  and  healthier. 
Why,  he  loves  him  already.  Look  at  that  out 
there."  Mrs  Daniels  did  look.  The  young 
scion  of  the  Daniels  house  was  sitting  down  in 
the  sand  and  gravel  of  the  drive,  and  his  com 
panion  and  care  taker  was  piling  leaves,  gravel, 
dirt,  sticks,  and  whatever  he  could  find  about  the 
lawn  on  his  shoulders  and  head.  The  mother 
shuddered. 

"But  don't  you  think,  Stone,  that  that's  a  little 
rough  for  Robert,  and  his  clothes — oh  my,  I  do 
believe  he  is  jamming  that  stick  down  his 
throat!" 

"Bosh,"  said  Stone,  "that's  the  way  to  make  a 
man  out  of  him." 

When  the  two  children  were  brought  in  from 
their  play,  young  Robert  showed  that  he  had 
been  taken  care  of.  He  was  scratched,  he  was 
bruised,  but  he  was  flushed  and  happy,  and  Stone 
Daniels  was  in  triumph. 

One,  two,  three  years  the  companionship  be 
tween  the  two  went  on,  and  the  love  between 
them  grew.  The  little  black  was  never  allowed 
to  forget  that  he  was  his  Master  Robert's  serv 
ant,  but  there  is  a  democracy  about  childhood 
that  oversteps  all  conventions,  and  lays  low  all 
193 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

barriers  of  caste.  Down  in  the  quarters,  with 
many  secret  giggles,  the  two  were  dubbed,  "The 
Daniels  twins." 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  Robert's  sixth  birth 
day  that  the  pair  might  have  been  seen  ucodgin'  " 
under  the  lilac  bush,  their  heads  very  close  to 
gether,  the  same  intent  look  on  both  the  black 
and  the  white  face.  Something  momentous  was 
under  discussion.  The  fact  of  it  was,  young 
Master  Robert  was  to  be  given  his  first  party  that 
evening,  and  though  a  great  many  children  of  the 
surrounding  gentry  had  been  invited,  provision 
had  not  been  made  for  the  entertainment  of  Lu 
cius  in  the  parlor.  Now  this  did  not  meet  with 
Robert's  views  of  what  was  either  right  or 
proper,  so  he  had  determined  to  take  matters  in 
his  own  hands,  and  together  with  his  black  con 
federate  was  planning  an  amendment  of  the  af 
fair. 

"You  see,  Lucius,"  he  was  saying,  "you  are 
mine,  because  papa  said  so,  and  you  was  born  the 
same  time  I  was,  so  don't  you  see  that  when  I 
have  a  birthday  party,  it  is  your  birthday  party 
too,  and  you  ought  to  be  there?" 

"Co'se,"  said  Lucius,  with  a  wise  shake  of  the 
head,  and  a  very  old  look,  "Co'se,  dat  des  de 
way  it  look  to  me,  Mas'  Robert." 

194 


A  Blessed  Deceit 

"Well,  now,  as  it's  your  party,  it  'pears  like  to 
me  that  you  ought  to  be  there,  and  not  be  foolin' 
'round  with  the  servants  that  the  other  company 
bring." 

1  Tears  lak  to  me  dat  I  oughter  be  'roun'  dah 
somewhah,"  answered  the  black  boy. 

Robert  thought  for  awhile,  then  he  clapped  his 
little  knee  and  cried,  "I've  got  it,  Lucius,  I've  got 
it!"  His  face  beamed  with  joy,  the  two  heads 
went  closer  together,  and  with  many  giggles  and 
capers  of  amusement,  their  secret  was  disclosed, 
and  the  young  master  trotted  off  to  the  house, 
while  Lucius  rolled  over  and  over  with  delight. 

A  little  while  afterwards  Robert  had  a  very 
sage  and  professional  conversation  with  his 
father  in  the  latter's  library.  It  was  only  on  state 
occasions  that  he  went  to  Doshy  and  asked  her  to 
obtain  an  interview  for  him  in  that  august  place, 
and  Stone  Daniels  knew  that  something  great 
was  to  be  said  when  the  request  came  to  him.  It 
was  immediately  granted,  for  he  denied  his  only 
heir  nothing,  and  the  young  man  came  in  with 
the  air  and  mien  of  an  ambassador  bearing  mes 
sages  to  a  potentate. 

What  was  said  in  that  conversation,  and  what 
was  answered  by  the  father,  it  boots  not  here  to 
195 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

tell.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  Robert  Daniels 
came  away  from  the  interview  with  shining  eyes 
and  a  look  of  triumph  on  his  face,  and  the  news 
he  told  to  his  fellow  conspirator  sent  him  off  into 
wild  peals  of  pleasure.  Quite  as  eagerly  as  his 
son  had  gone  out  to  Lucius,  Stone  Daniels  went 
to  talk  with  his  wife. 

"I  tell  you,  Eliza,'*  he  said,  "there's  no  use 
talking,  that  boy  of  ours  is  a  Daniels  through 
and  through.  He  is  an  aristocrat  to  his  finger 
tips.  What  do  you  suppose  he  has  been  in  to  ask 
me?" 

"I  have  no  idea,  Stone,"  said  his  wife,  "what 
new  and  original  thing  this  wonderful  boy  of 
ours  has  been  saying  now." 

uYou  needn't  laugh  now,  Eliza,  because  it  is 
something  new  and  original  he  has  been  saying." 

"I  never  doubted  it  for  an  instant." 

"He  came  to  me  with  that  wise  look  of  his; 
you  know  it?" 

"Don't  I?"  said  the  mother  tenderly. 

"And  he  said,  Tapa,  don't  you  think  as  I  am 
giving  a  party,  an'  my  servant  was  born  'bout 
the  same  time  as  I  was,  don't  you  think  he  ought 
to  kinder — kinder — be  'roun'  where  people  could 

196 


A  Blessed  Deceit 

see  him,  as,  what  do  you  call  it  in  the  picture, 
papa?'  'What  do  you  mean?'  I  said.  'Oh,  you 
know,  to  set  me  off.'  'Oh,  a  background,  you 
mean?'  'Yes,  a  background;  now  I  think  it 
would  be  nice  if  Lucius  could  be  right  there,  so 
whenever  I  want  to  show  my  picture  books  or 
anything,  I  could  just  say,  "Lucius,  won't  you 
bring  me  this,  or  won't  you  bring  me  that?"  like 
you  do  with  Scott.'  'Oh,  but  my  son,'  I  said,  'a 
gentleman  never  wants  to  show  off  his  posses 
sions.'  'No,  papa,'  he  replied,  with  the  most 
quizzical  expression  I  ever  saw  on  a  child's  face, 
'no,  I  don't  want  to  show  off.  I  just  want  to 
kinder  indicate,  don't  you  know,  cause  it's  a 
birthday  party,  and  that'll  kinder  make  it 
stronger." 

"Of  course  you  consented?"  said  Mrs.  Dan 
iels. 

"With  such  wise  reasoning,  how  could  a  man 
do  otherwise?"  He  replied,  "Don't  you  see  the 
child  has  glimmers  of  that  fine  feeling  of  social 
contrast,  my  dear?" 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Daniels,  "that  my  son  Rob 
ert  wants  to  have  Lucius  in  the  room  at  the  party, 
and  was  shrewd  enough  to  gain  his  father's  con 


sent." 


197 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"By  the  Lord!"  said  her  husband,  "but  I  be- 
lieve  you're  right!  Well,  it's  done  now,  and  I 
can't  go  back  on  my  word." 

"The  Daniels  twins"  were  still  out  on  the 
lawn  dancing  to  the  piping  of  the  winds  and 
throwing  tufts  of  grass  into  the  air  and  over  their 
heads,  when  they  were  called  in  to  be  admonished 
and  dressed.  Peacock  never  strutted  as  did  Lu 
cius  when,  arrayed  in  a  blue  suit  with  shining 
brass  buttons,  he  was  stationed  in  the  parlor  near 
his  master's  chair.  Those  were  the  days  when 
even  children's  parties  were  very  formal  and  ele 
gant  affairs.  There  was  no  hurrying  and  scur 
rying  then,  and  rough  and  tumble  goings-on. 
That  is,  at  first,  there  was  not;  when  childhood 
gets  warmed  up  though,  it  is  pretty  much  the 
same  in  any  period  of  the  world's  history.  How 
ever,  the  young  guests  coming  were  received  with 
great  dignity  and  formality  by  their  six-year-old 
host.  The  party  was  begun  in  very  stately  fash 
ion.  It  was  not  until  supper  was  announced  that 
the  stiffness  and  awe  of  the  children  at  a  social 
function  began  to  wear  off.  Then  they  gathered 
about  the  table,  cheerful  and  buoyant,  charmed 
and  dazzled  by  its  beauty.  There  was  a  pretty 
canopy  over  the  chair  of  the  small  host,  and  the 

198 


A  Blessed  Deceit 

dining-room    and   tables   were    decorated   with 
beautiful  candles  in  the  silver  candlesticks  that 
had  been  heirlooms  of  the  Daniels  for  centuries. 
Robert  had  lost  some  of  his  dignity,  and  laughed 
and  chatted  with  the  rest  as  the  supper  went  on. 
The  little  girls  were  very  demure,  the  boys  were 
inclined  to   be   a   little  boisterous.      The   most 
stately  figure  in  the  room  was  Lucius  where  he 
was  stationed  stiff  and  erect  behind  his  master's 
chair.     From  the  doorway,  the  elders  looked  on 
with  enjoyment  at  the  scene.     The  supper  was 
nearly  over,  and  the  fun  was  fast  and  furious. 
The  boys  were  unable  longer  to  contain  the  ani 
mal  spirits  which  were  bubbling  over,  and  there 
began  surreptitious  scufflings  and  nudges  under 
the  table.   Someone  near  Robert  suddenly  sprang 
up,  the  cloth  caught  in  his  coat,  two  candles  were 
tipped  over  straight  into  the  little  host's  lap. 
The  melted  wax  ran  over  him,  and  in  a  twinkle 
the  fine  frills  and  laces  about  him  were  a  mass  of 
flames.    Instantly  all  was  confusion,  the  children 
were  shrieking  and  rushing  pell-mell  from  the 
table.  They  crowded  the  room  in  frightened  and 
confused  huddles,  and  it  was  this  that  barred 
Stone  Daniels  as  he  fought  his  way  fiercely  to 
his  son's  side.    But  one  was  before  him.    At  the 
199 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

first  sign  of  danger  to  his  young  master,  Lucius 
had  sprung  forward  and  thrown  himself  upon 
him,  beating,  fighting,  tearing,  smothering,  try 
ing  to  kill  the  fire.  He  grabbed  the  delicate 
linen,  he  tore  at  the  collar  and  jacket;  he  was 
burning  himself,  his  clothes  were  on  fire,  but  he 
heeded  it  not.  He  only  saw  that  his  master  was 
burning,  burning  before  him,  and  his  boy's  heart 
went  out  in  a  cry,  "Oh,  Mas'  Bob,  oh,  Mas' 
Bob !" 

Somehow,  the  father  reached  his  child  at  last, 
and  threw  his  coat  about  him.  The  flames  were 
smothered,  and  the  unconscious  child  carried  to 
his  room.  The  children  were  hurried  into  their 
wraps  and  to  their  homes,  and  a  messenger  gal 
loped  away  for  the  doctor. 

And  what  of  Lucius?  When  the  heir  of  the 
Daniels  was  in  danger  of  his  life  no  one  had  time 
to  think  of  the  slave,  and  it  was  not  until  he  was 
heard  moaning  on  the  floor  where  he  had  crept 
in  to  be  by  his  master's  bedside,  that  it  was  found 
out  that  he  also  was  badly  burned,  and  a  cot  was 
fixed  for  him  in  the  same  room. 

When  the  doctor  came  in  he  shook  his  head 
over  both,  and  looked  very  grave  indeed.  First 
Robert  and  then  his  servant  was  bound  and 

200 


A  Blessed  Deceit 

bandaged,  and  the  same  nurse  attended  both. 
When  the  white  child  returned  to  consciousness 
his  mother  was  weeping  over  him,  and  his  father 
with  face  pale  and  drawn  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  "Oh,  my  poor  child,  my  poor  child!" 
moaned  the  woman;  umy  only  one !" 

With  a  gasp  of  pain  Robert  turned  his  face 
toward  his  mother  and  said,  "Don't  you  cry, 
mamma ;  if  I  die,  I'll  leave  you  Lucius." 

It  was  funny  afterwards  to  think  of  it,  but 
then  it  only  brought  a  fresh  burst  of  tears  from 
the  mother's  heart,  and  made  a  strange  twitch 
ing  about  the  father's  mouth. 

But  he  didn't  die.  Lucius'  caretaking  had 
produced  in  him  a  robust  constitution,  and  both 
children  fought  death  and  gained  the  fight. 
When  they  were  first  able  to  sit  up — and  Robert 
was  less  inclined  to  be  parted  from  Lucius  than 
ever — the  young  master  called  his  father  into 
the  room.  Lucius'  chair  was  wheeled  near  him 
when  the  little  fellow  began : 

"Papa,  I  want  to  'fess  somethin'  to  you.  The 
night  of  the  party  I  didn't  want  Lucius  in  for 
indicating  I  wanted  him  to  see  the  fun,  didn't  I 
Lucius?" 

201 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Lucius  nodded  painfully,  and  said,  "Uh-huh." 
"I  didn't  mean  to  'ceive  you,  papa,  but  you 
know  it  was  both  of  our  birthdays — and — er — " 
Stone  Daniels  closed  his  boy's  mouth  with  a  kiss, 
and  turned  and  patted  the  black  boy's  head  with 
a  tender  look  on  his  face,  "For  once,  thank  God, 
it  was  a  blessed  deceit." 

That  is  why  in  years  later,  Lucius  did  so  little 
work  and  dressed  like  his  master's  son. 


202 


THE  BRIEF  CURE  OF  AUNT  FANNY. 

Some  people  grow  old  gracefully,  charmingly. 
Others,  with  a  bitter  reluctance  so  evident  that 
it  detracts  from  whatever  dignity  might  attach 
to  their  advanced  period  of  life.  Of  this  latter 
class  was  Aunt  Fanny.  She  had  cooked  in  the 
Mordaunt  kitchen  for  more  years  than  those 
hands  who  even  claimed  middle-age  cared  to 
remember.  But  any  reference  to  the  length  of 
time  she  had  passed  there  was  keenly  resented  by 
the  old  woman.  She  had  been  good-looking  in 
her  younger  days,  sprightly,  and  a  wonderful 
worker,  and  she  held  to  the  belief  in  her  capabili 
ties  long  after  the  powers  of  her  youth  and 
middle-age  were  gone.  She  was  still  young  when 
her  comrades,  Parker,  Tempe,  Doshy  and  Mam 
Henry  had  duly  renounced  their  sins,  got  religion 
and  confessed  themselves  old.  She  had  danced 
beyond  the  time  when  all  her  comrades  had 
grown  to  the  stage  of  settled  and  unfrivolous 
Christianity.  Indeed,  she  had  kept  up  her  gayety 
until  she  could  find  no  men  old  enough  to  be  her 
partners,  and  the  young  men  began  to  ignore  her; 
then  she  went  into  the  Church.  But  with  the 
203 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

cooking,  it  was  different.  Even  to  herself,  after 
years  had  come  and  brought  their  infirmities,  she 
would  not  admit  her  feebleness,  and  she  felt  that 
she  had  never  undergone  a  greater  trial  or  en 
dured  a  more  flagrant  insult  than  when  Maria 
was  put  into  the  kitchen  to  help  her  with  her 
work.  Help  her  with  her  work,  indeed !  Who 
could  help  her?  In  truth,  what  need  had  she  of 
assistance?  Was  she  not  altogether  the  most 
famous  cook  in  the  whole  county?  Was  she 
not  able  by  herself  to  cope  with  all  the  duties 
that  could  possibly  devolve  upon  her?  Resent 
ment  renewed  her  energy,  and  she  did  her  work 
with  an  angry  sprightliness  that  belied  her  years. 
She  browbeat  Maria  and  made  her  duties  a 
sinecure  by  doing  everything  just  as  she  had  done 
before  her  rival's  appearance. 

It  was  pretty  hard  for  the  younger  woman, 
who  also  was  active  and  ambitious,  and  there 
were  frequent  clashes  between  the  two,  but  Aunt 
Fanny  from  being  an  autocrat  had  gained  a  con 
sciousness  of  power,  and  was  almost  always  vic 
torious  in  these  bouts.  "Uh  huh!"  she  said  to 
Tempe,  discussing  the  matter.  "They  ain't 
gwine  to  put  no  upstart  black  'ooman  oveh  me, 
aftah  all  de  yeahs  Fs  been  in  dat  kitchen.  I 
204 


The  Brief  Cure  of  Aunt  Fanny 

knows  evah  brick  an'  slat  in  it.  It  uz  built  fu' 
me,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  let  nobody  tek  it  f'om  me. 
No,  suh,  not  ontwell  de  preacheah  done  tho'wed 
de  ashes  on  dis  haid." 

"We's  all  gittin'  ol',  dough,"  said  Tempe 
thoughtfully,  "an'  de  young  ones  got  to  tek  ouah 
place." 

"Gittin'  ol'!  gittin'  ol' !"  Aunt  Fanny  would 
exclaim  indignantly;  "I  ain't  gittin'  ol'.  I  des' 
ez  spry  ez  I  was  w'en  I  was  a  gal."  And  by 
her  work  she  made  an  attempt  to  bear  out  her 
statement. 

It  would  not  do,  though;  for  Time  has  no 
illusions.  Neither  is  he  discreet,  and  he  was  tell 
ing  on  Aunt  Fanny. 

The  big  house,  too,  had  felt  for  a  long  time 
that  she  was  failing,  but  the  old  master  had 
hesitated  to  speak  to  her,  but  now  he  felt  that 
she  was  going  from  bad  to  worse,  and  that  some 
thing  must  be  done.  It  was  hard  speaking  to 
her,  but  when  morning  after  morning  the  break 
fast  was  unpardonably  late,  the  beaten  biscuits 
were  burned  and  the  cakes  tough,  it  appeared 
that  the  crisis  had  come.  Just  at  this  time,  too, 
Maria  made  it  plain  that  she  was  not  being  given 
her  proper  share  of  responsibility,  and  Stuart 
205 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Mordaunt,  the  old  master,  went  down  to  remon 
strate  with  Aunt  Fanny. 

"Now,  Fanny,"  he  said,  "you  know  we  have 
never  complained  of  your  cooking,  and  you  have 
been  serving  right  here  in  this  kitchen  for  forty 
years,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  has,  Mas'  Stua't,"  said  Aunt  Fanny, 
"an'  I  wish  I  could  go  right  on  fu'  fo'ty  yeahs 


mo'." 


"I  wish  so,  too,  but  age  is  telling  on  you  just 
as  it  is  on  me;"  he  put  his  hand  to  his  white 
head.  "It  is  no  use  your  working  so  hard  any 


more." 


"I  want  to  work  hard,"  said  Aunt  Fanny 
tremulously;  "hit's  my  life." 

"But  you  are  not  able  to  do  it,"  said  Mor 
daunt  forcibly;  "you  are  too  old,  Fanny." 

She  turned  on  him  a  look  eager,  keen  and 
argumentative. 

I's  moughty  sho'  you  older'n  me,  Mas1 
Stua't,"  she  said. 

"I  know  it,"  he  said  hastily.  "Didn't  I  just 
say  that  age  was  telling  on  us  both?" 

"You  ain't  quit  runnin'  de  plantation  yit,"  was 
the  calm  reply. 

206 


The  Brief  Cure  of  Aunt  Fanny 

The  master  was  staggered  for  a  moment,  but 
he  hurriedly  rallied:  "No,  I  haven't,  but  I  am 
a  good  deal  less  active  than  I  was  twenty,  ten, 
even  five  years  ago.  I  don't  work  much,  I  only 
direct  others — and  that's  just  what  I  want  you 
to  do.  Be  around,  direct  others,  and  teach 
Maria  what  you  know." 

"It  ain't  in  huh,"  sententiously. 

"Put  it  in  her;  some  one  had  to  teach  you." 

"No,  suh,  I  was  a  born  cook.  Nemmine,  I 
see  you  want  to  git  rid  o'  me;  nemmine,  M'ria 
kin  have  de  kitchen."  The  old  woman's  voice 
was  trembling  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes, 
big  and  glistening.  Mordaunt  always  gentle- 
hearted,  gave  in.  "Well,  confound  it,  Fanny," 
he  broke  in,  "do  as  you  please ;  I've  nothing  more 
to  say.  I  suppose  we'll  have  to  go  on  eating 
your  burned  biscuits  and  tough  batter-cakes  as 
long  as  you  please.  That's  all  I  have  to  say." 

But  with  Maria  there  was  no  such  easy  yield 
ing;  for  she  knew  that  she  had  the  power  of  the 
big  house  behind  her,  and  in  the  next  bout  with 
Aunt  Fanny  she  held  her  own  and  triumphed 
for  the  first  time.  The  older  woman's  anger 
knew  no  bounds.  She  went  sullenly  to  her  cabin 
that  night,  and  she  did  not  rise  the  next  morning 
207 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

when  the  horn  blew.  She  told  those  who  in 
quired  that  she  was  sick,  and  "I  'low,"  she  in 
variably  added,  "dat  Fs  either  got  the  rheumatiz 
or  dat  black  wench  has  conju'ed  me  so's  to  git  my 
kitchen,  'case  she  knowed  dat  was  de  only  way 
to  git  it." 

Now  Aunt  Fanny  well  knew  that  to  accuse  one 
of  her  fellow-servants  of  calling  in  the  aid  of  the 
black  art  was  to  bring  about  the  damnation  of 
that  other  servant  if  the  story  gained  credence, 
but  even  she  doubted  that  the  plantation  could 
believe  anything  so  horrible  of  one  so  generally 
popular,  who,  besides,  had  her  own  particular 
following.  Among  the  latter  Mam  Henry  was 
not  wont  to  be  numbered,  but  she  was  a  woman 
who  loved  to  see  fair  play,  and  after  having 
visited  Aunt  Fanny  in  her  cabin,  she  said  in 
secret  to  Aunt  Tempe : 

"Fanny  she  don't  look  lak  no  conju'ed  ooman 
to  me,  an'  Fs  gwine  fin'  out  whether  dey's  any 
thing  de  matter  wid  huh  a-tall,  'case  I  don' 
b'lieve  dey  is.  I  b'lieve  she's  des'  in  one  o'  huh 
tantrums,  'case  M'ria  stood  huh  down  'bout  de 
kitchen." 

Aunt  Tempe  had  answered:     "Dey  ain't  no 
'sputin'  dat  Fanny  is  gittinT  ol'  an'  doty." 
208 


The  Brief  Cure  of  Aunt  Fanny 

The  sick  woman  or  malingerer,  whichever  she 
was,  did  not  see  the  subtle  motive  which 
prompted  Mam  Henry's  offer  to  nurse  and  doc 
tor  her.  She  looked  upon  it  as  an  evidence  of 
pure  friendship  and  a  tribute  to  her  own  worth 
on  the  plantation.  She  saw  in  Mam  Henry,  a 
woman  older  even  than  herself,  a  trusted  ally  in 
revolt  against  the  advances  of  youth,  and  she 
anticipated  a  sympathetic  listener  into  whose  ears 
she  might  pour  her  confidences.  As  to  her  pow-' 
ers  as  a  curer  and  a  nurse,  while  Mam  Henry 
was  not  actually  "long-headed,"  she  was  known 
to  be  both  "gifted"  and  "wise,"  and  was  close 
in  the  confidence  of  Dr.  Bass,  the  conjure  man, 
himself. 

Although  Maria  went  her  way  about  the 
kitchen,  and  made  the  most  of  her  new-found 
freedom,  she  heard  with  grief  and  consternation, 
not  unmingled  with  a  wholesome  fear,  the  accu 
sations  which  her  old  enemy  was  making  against 
her.  She  trembled  for  what  the  plantation  would 
say  and  do,  and  for  what  her  master  would  think. 
Some  of  her  misgivings  she  communicated  to 
Aunt  Tempe,  who  reassured  her  with  the  remark, 
"Nevah  you  min',  chile,  you  des  go  'long  an'  do 
209 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

yo'  wo'k,  dey's  things  wo'kin'  fu'  you  in  de 
da'k." 

Meanwhile,  Mam  Henry  had  duly  installed 
herself  in  her  patient's  cabin  and  entered  upon 
her  ministrations.  The  afflicted  arm  and  leg 
were  covered  with  greased  jimson  weed  and 
swathed  in  bandages. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  doin'  dis,  Mam  Henry,"  Aunt 
Fanny  protested,  "  'tain't  a  bit  o'  use.  I's  hyeah 
to  tell  you  dat  dis  mis'ry  I's  sufferin'  wid  ain't  no 
rheumatiz,  hit's  des  plain  conju',  an'  dey  ain't 
nuffin'  gwine  to  do  no  good  but  to  meet  trick  wid 
trick." 

"You  lay  low,  chile,"  answered  Mam  Henry 
impressively.  "I  got  my  own  idees.  I's  gwine 
to  use  all  de  rheumatiz  cuohs,  an'  den  ef  you 
ain't  no  bettah,  de  sign  will  be  sho'  ez  de  wo'd 
dat  you's  been  tricked.  Den  we  gwine  to  use 
othah  things." 

Aunt  Fanny  closed  her  eyes  and  resigned  her 
self.  She  could  afford  to  wait,  for  she  had  a 
pretty  definite  idea  herself  what  the  outcome 
would  be. 

In  the  long  hours  that  the  old  women  were 
together  it  was  quite  natural  that  they  should 
fall  into  confidences,  and  it  was  equally  natural 

210 


The  Brief  Cure  of  Aunt  Fanny 

that  Aunt  Fanny  should  be  especially  interested 
in  the  doings  of  the  kitchen  and  the  big  house. 
Her  mistress  had  brought  her  some  flannels,  and 
good  things  to  eat,  and,  while  she  had  sym 
pathized  with  her,  she  felt  that  nothing  could 
have  been  more  opportune  than  this  illness  that 
settled  the  question  of  the  cooking  once  and  for 
ever.  In  one  of  their  talks,  Aunt  Fanny  asked 
her  nurse  what  "OF  Miss  'Liza  say  'bout  me 
bein'  sick." 

"She  say  she  moughty  so'y  fu'  you,  but  dat 
'tain't  no  mo'  den  she  'spected  anyhow,  case  de 
kitchen  kin'  o'  open  an'  you  gittin'  too  ol'  to  be 
'roun',  'sposin'  yo'se'f  to  all  kin'  o'  draughts." 

''Humph!"  sniffed  Aunt  Fanny  from  the  bed, 
and  she  flirted  the  rheumatic  arm  around  in  a 
way  that  should  have  caused  her  unspeakable 
pain.  She  never  flinched,  however. 

"She  don't  b'lieve  you  conju'ed,"  Mam  Henry 
went  on.  "She  say  dat's  all  foo'ishness;  she  say 
you  des'  got  de  rheumatiz,  dat  w'en  you  git  up 
you  gotter  stay  closah  to  yo'  cabin,  an'  not  be 
flyin'  'roun'  whaih  you  tek  mo'  col'." 

This  time  the  rheumatic  leg  performed  some 
gyrations  unheard  of  from  such  a  diseased  mem 
ber. 


211 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Mam  Henry,"  said  Aunt  Fanny  solemnly, 
"ain't  it  cu'ious  how  little  w'ite  folks  know  'bout 
natur?" 

"It  sho  is.  OF  Mas'  he  say  he  gwine  'tiah 
mos'  of  de  oF  servants,  an'  let  'em  res'  fu'  de 
balance  o'  dey  days,  case  dey  been  faifful,  an' 
he  think  dey  'serve  it.  I  think  so,  too.  We 
been  wo'kin'  all  ouah  days,  an'  I  know  oF  Time 
done  laid  his  han'  heavy  on  my  back.  Ain't  I 
right?" 

"Humph!"  from  the  bed.  "Some  people 
ages  quicker'n  othahs." 

"Dat's  de  Gospel.  Now  wid  you  an'  me  an' 
Tempe  an'  Pahkah  an'  Doshy,  dey  ain't  been 
nuffin  quick  'bout  hit,  case  I  tell  you,  Fanny, 
chile,  we's  been  hyeah  lo  dese  many  days." 

"How  M'ria  git  erlong?"  Aunt  Fanny  asked 
uneasily. 

"Oh,  M'ria  she  des'  tickled  to  deaf.  She 
flyin'  'roun'  same  ez  a  chicken  wid  his  haid  wrung 
off.  She  so  proud  o'  huhse'f  dat  she  des  cain't 
res',  she  cain't  do  enough.  She  scourin'  an'  she 
cleanin'  an'  she  cookin'  all  de  time,  an'  w'en  she 
ain't  cookin'  she  plannin  what  she  gwine  to  cook. 
I  hyeah  oF  mas'  say  dat  she  sholy  was  moughty 
peart,  an'  I  'low  huh  battah-cakes  was  somep'n 

212 


The  Brief  Cure  of  Aunt  Fanny 

scrumptious.  Mas'  Stua't  et  a  mess;  he  'low  dat 
ef  M'ria  keep  on  mekin'  such  cakes  as  she  mek 
in  de  mornin',  de  m'lasses  bar'l  ain't  gwine  hoi' 
out  no  time. 

Aunt  Fanny  looked  nervously  toward  her  bro- 
gans  in  the  corner.  The  camel's  back  was  being 
pretty  heavily  laden,  and  a  faint  smile  flickered 
over  Mam  Henry's  shrewd  face. 

"You  des'  ought  to  see  de  aihs  M'ria  teks  on 
huhse'f.  She  allus  struttin'  erroun'  wid  a  w'ite 
ap'on  on  soon's  huh  wo'k's  done,  an'  she  calls 
huhse'f  de  big  house  cook." 

This  was  the  last  straw.  The  camel's  back 
went  with  a  figurative  crash.  The  covers  were 
thrown  back,  and  Aunt  Fanny  sprang  up  and 
seated  herself  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Han'  me  my  shoes,"  she  said. 

"W'y,  Fanny,  fo'  de  Lawd!"  cried  Mam 
Henry  in  well-feigned  surprise.  "What  you 
gwine  do?" 

"Fs  gwine  git  up  f'om  hyeah,  dat's  what  I's 
gwine  do.  Han'  me  my  shoes." 

"Butyo'  rheumatiz,  yo'  rheumatiz?" 

"I  ain't  got  no  rheumatiz.  You  done  cuohed 
me,"  she  said,  slipping  into  her  dress  as  she  spoke. 
213 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"But  you  ain't  gin  me  de  chanst  to  try  all  de 
cuohs  yit;  s'posen  you  tu'ns  out  to  be  conju'ed 
aftah  all." 

"Ain't  oP  miss  done  say  hit  all  foolishness?" 

"But  you  done  say  de  w'ite  folks  don't  know 
nuffin  'bout  natur." 

"I  ain't  got  no  time  to  bantah  wo'ds  wid  you, 
Mam  Henry,  I  got  to  go  to  my  wo'k.  I  ain't 
gwine  let  my  kitchen  be  all  messed  up  an'  my 
w'ite  folks'  appetites  plum  spiled  by  dat  know- 
nuffin  wench."  And  Aunt  Fanny  walking  with 
an  ease  that  bore  out  her  statement  that  she  was 
cured  swept  out  of  the  house  with  scant  courtesy 
to  her  nurse,  who  remained  behind,  shaking  with 
laughter. 

"I  said  so,  I  said  so,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
knowed  dey  wa'nt  nuffin'  de  mattah  wid  Fanny 
but  de  tantrums." 

Maria  was  a  good  deal  surprised  and  not  at  all 
pleased  when,  a  little  later,  her  old  rival  appeared 
upon  the  scene  and  began  to  take  charge  of  things 
in  the  old  way. 

"W'y,  Aunt  Fanny,"  she  said,  "I  t'ought  you 
was  sick?" 

214 


The  Brief  Cure  of  Aunt  Fanny 

"You  don't  s'pose  I's  gwine  to  stay  sick  all  de 
time,  do  you?"  was  the  short  response.  "I 
wants  you  to  know  I's  cuohed." 

Then  Maria  bridled.  Her  unlimited  author 
ity  in  the  last  few  days  had  put  added  spirit  into 
her. 

"Look  a-hyeah,  Aunt  Fanny,"  she  said,  "I  sees 
thoo  you  now.  You  des  been  sick  'case  you 
couldn't  have  yo'  own  way,  an'  you  wanted  to 
mek  b'lieve  I  conju'ed  you  so  de  folks  would 
drive  me  out,  didn't  you?  But  sick  er  no  sick, 
conju'  er  no  conju',  cuohed  er  no  cuohed,  dis  is 
my  kitchen,  an'  I  ain't  gwine  gin  it  up  to  no 


'ooman." 


Later  on  the  services  of  the  master  had  to  be 
called  in  again,  and  he  also  began  to  understand. 

"Well,  it's  this  way,  Fanny,"  he  said;  "you 
might  be  cured  now,  but  if  you  stay  around  here 
you  are  likely  to  be  taken  down  again.  You  are 
apt  to  become  subject  to  these  attacks,  so  you 
had  better  go  back  to  your  cabin  and  stay  around 
there.  Maria  is  going  to  take  charge  of  the 
kitchen  now,  and  when  we  need  you,  you  can 
come  up  and  cook  something  special  for  your  old 
Miss  and  me." 

215 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

The  old  woman  would  have  protested,  but 
there  was  a  firm  ring  in  her  master's  voice  which 
was  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  she  went  tearfully 
back  to  her  cabin,  where,  though  so  suddenly 
ucuohed,"  she  was  immediately  taken  ill  again, 
more  seriously,  if  possible,  than  before. 


216 


THE  STANTON  COACHMAN. 

The  morning  sun  touched  the  little  old-fash 
ioned  Virginia  church  with  glory,  while  in  the 
shadow  of  its  vine-covered  porch  an  old  negro 
alternately  mumbled  to  himself  and  dozed. 

It  was  not  yet  time  for  the  service  to  begin, 
and  as  I  stood  watching  the  bees  go  in  and  out 
of  the  honeysuckle  vines  there  came  up  the  road 
and  halted  at  the  door  a  strange  equipage.  Side 
by  side  upon  the  one  seat  of  an  ox-cart  sat  a  ne 
gro,  possibly  fifty  years  of  age,  and  an  old  white 
lady.  No  one  could  have  mistaken  her  for  one 
of  the  country  women  coming  in  from  any  of  the 
adjoining  farms,  for  she  was  unmistakably  a 
lady,  from  the  white  hair  which  crowned  her 
high-bred  face  to  the  patched  and  shabby  shoe 
that  peeped  from  under  her  dress  as  she  alighted. 
The  black  man  had  leaped  down  and,  holding 
in  one  hand  the  ropes  that  did  duty  as  reins, 
helped  her  tenderly  to  the  ground. 

The  grace  and  deference  of  his  manner  were 
perfect,  and  she  accepted  his  service  with  a  cer 
tain  genial  dignity  that  bespoke  custom.  She 
went  her  feeble  way  into  the  church,  and  I  was 
217 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

surprised  to  see  the  dozing  old  negro  wake  into 
sudden  life,  spring  up  and  doff  his  cap  as  she 
passed.  Meanwhile,  at  the  heads  of  the  lazy 
oxen  stood  the  shabby  servitor,  erect  and  fine- 
looking,  even  in  the  tattered  garments  that  cov 
ered  his  form. 

The  scene  would  have  been  ludicrous  if  there 
had  not  been  about  it  an  air  of  dignified  earnest 
ness  that  disarmed  ridicule.  You  could  almost 
have  imagined  that  black  tatterdemalion  there  a 
coachman  in  splendid  livery,  standing  by  the  side 
of  his  restless  chargers,  and  that  ox-cart  with  its 
one  seat  and  wheels  awry  might  have  been  the 
most  dashing  of  victorias.  What  had  I  stumbled 
upon — one  of  those  romances  of  the  old  South 
that  still  shed  their  light  among  the  shadows  of 
slavery  ? 

The  old  negro  in  the  porch  had  settled  him 
self  again  for  a  nap,  but  I  disregarded  his  in 
clination  and,  the  service  forgotten,  approached 
him:  "Howdy,  Uncle." 

"Howdy,  son,  howdy;  how  you  come  on?" 

"Oh,  I'm  tollable  peart,"  I  answered,  falling 
easily  into  his  manner  of  speech.  "I  was  just 
wondering  who  the  old  lady  was  that  went  in 
church  just  now." 

218 


The  Stanton  Coachman 

He  looked  up  questioningly  for  a  minute,  and 
then  being  satisfied  of  my  respect,  replied,  "Dat 
uz  de  Stanton  lady — Ol'  Mis'  Stanton." 

"And  the  black  man  there?" 

"Dat's  Ha'ison;  dat's  de  Stanton  coachman. 
I  reckon  you  ain't  f'om  hyeah?" 

"No,  but  I  should  like  to  know  about  them." 

"Oomph,  hit's  a  wonder  you  ain't  nevah 
hyeahed  tell  o'  de  Stantons.  I  don'  know  whah 
yo'  been  at,  man.  Why,  evahbody  knowed  de 
Stantons  roun'  'bout  hyeah.  Dey  wuz  de  riches' 
folks  any  whah  roun'." 

"Well  to  do,  were  they?" 

"Well  to  do  !  Man,  whut  you  talkin'  'bout?  I 
tell  you,  dem  people  wuz  rich,  dey  wuz  scand'- 
lous  rich.  Dey  owned  neahly  all  de  dahkies  in 
de  county,  an'  dey  wasn't  no  hi'in'  out  people, 
neithah.  I  didn't  'long  to  dem,  but  I  allus 
wished  I  did,  'case " 

"But  about  Harrison?" 

"Ez  I  were  goin'  to  say,  my  ol'  mastah  hi'ed 
out,  an'  I  wuz  on  de  go  mos'  all  de  time,  'case  I 
sholy  wuz  spry  an'  handy  dem  days.  Ha'ison, 
he  wuz  de  coachman,  an'  a  proudah,  finah- 
dressed  dahky  you  nevah  seed  in  all  yore  bo'n 
days.  Oomph-um,  but  he  wuz  sta'chy!  Dey 
219 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

had  his  lib'ry  made  at  de  same  place  whah  dey 
made  de  oF  Gunnel's  an'  de  young  mastah's 
clothes,  an'  dey  wuz  sights.  Such  gol'  buttons, 

an'  long  coats,  an'  shiny  hats,  an'  boots " 

The  old  man  paused  and  shook  his  head,  as  if 
the  final  glory  had  been  reached.  uDey  ain't 
no  mo'  times  lak  dat,"  he  went  on.  "Hit  used 
to  be  des  lak  a  pu'cession  when  Ha'ison  come 
ridin'  down  de  road  on  top  o'  de  Stanton  ca'ige. 
He  sot  up  thar  des  ez  straight,  de  hosses  a 
prancin',  an'  de  wheels  a  glistenin',  an'  he 
nevah  move  his  naik  to  de  right  er  de  lef,  no 
mo'n  ef  he  wuz  froze.  Sometimes  you  could  git 
a  glimpse  o'  de  mistus'  face  inside,  an'  she  wuz 
allus  beautiful  an'  smilin',  lak  a  real  lady  ought 
to  be,  an'  sometimes  dey'd  have  de  ca'ige  open, 
an'  de  Gunnel  would  come  a  ridin'  down  'long- 
side  o'  hit  on  one  o'  his  fine  hosses,  an'  Ha'ison 
ud  sit  straightah  dan  evah,  an'  you  couldn'  a  tol' 
wheddah  he  knowed  de  footman  wuz  a  sittin' 
side  o'  him  er  not. 

"Dey  wuz  mighty  good  to  all  de  people,  de 
Stantons  wuz,  an'  dey  faihly  id'lized  dem.  Why, 
ef  Miss  Dolly  had  a  stahted  to  put  huh  foot  on 
de  groun'  any  time  she'd  a  had  a  string  o'  nig 
gers  ez  long  ez  f'om  hyeah  to  yandah  a  layin' 

220 


The  Stanton  Coachman 

daihseVes  in  de  paf  fu'  huh  to  walk  on,  fu'  dey 
sholy  did  love  huh.  An'  de  Gunnel,  he  wuz  de 
beatenes'  man.  He  could  nevah  walk  out  on  de 
plantation  'clout  a  whole  string  o'  piccaninnies  a 
followin'  aftah  him.  Dey  knowed  whut  dey  wuz 
doin',  fu'  aftah  while  de  Gunnel  tu'n  roun'  an' 
th'ow  'em  a  whole  lot  o'  coppers  an'  fips,  an' 
bless  yore  hea't,  sich  anothah  scram'lin'  an' 
rollin'  an'  a  tumblin'  in  de  dus'  you  nevah  seed. 
Well,  de  Gunnel,  he'd  stan'  thar  an'  des  natchelly 
crack  his  sides  a-laffin'  ontwell  dey  wuz  thoo 
fightin',  den  he  call  up  dem  dat  hadn't  got  nuffin' 
an'  give  'em  daih  sheer,  so's  to  see  'em  all  go  off 
happy,  a-hollerin'  'Thanky,  Mas'  Stant',  thanky, 
mastah !'  I  reckon  any  fips  dey  gits  now  dey 
has  to  scratch  fu'  wuss'n  dey  did  den.  Dem  wuz 
wunnerful  times! 

"Den  come  'long  de  time  o'  de  wah,  an'  den 
o'  co'se  I  oughtn'  say  hit,  but  de  Gunnel,  he  make 
a  great  big  mistake;  he  freed  all  de  niggahs. 
Hit  wuz  des  dis  away:  de  Stantons,  dey  freed  all 
daih  servants  right  in  de  middle  o'  de  wah,  an' 
o'  cose  nobody  couldn'  stan'  ag'inst  daih  wo'd,  so 
freedom  des  spread.  Mistah  Lincoln  mought  V 
been  all  right,  but  he  didn'  have  nothin'  to  do 
wid  hit.  Hit  wuz  Mas'  Stanton,  dat  who  it  wuz. 

221 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Ef  hit  wasn',  huccome  Mas'  Stanton  keep  all  de 
sarvants  he  want,  eben  ef  he  do  pay  'em  wages? 
Huccome  he  keep  Ha'ison,  'ceptin'  he  writ  home 
to  his  lady?  He  wuz  at  de  wah,  an'  thar  wasn' 
no  mo  folks  on  de  place,  'ceptin'  a  sarvant, 
w'en  hit  all  come  up.  Ha'ison  he  layin'  flat  on 
his  back  sick  in  his  cabin,  an'  not  able  to  do  nuf- 
fin  a-tall.  Seemed  lak  dey'd  a  freed  a  no-count 
dahky  lak  dat;  but,  no,  suh,  oF  Mis'  sont  Marfy 
to  nuss  him,  an'  sont  him  all  kin'  o'  contraptions 
to  git  him  well,  an'  oF  Doctah  Ma'maduke  Wil 
son  he  come  to  see  him. 

"Den  w'en  Ha'ison  got  up  oF  Mis'  went  down 
to  see  him,  an'  tuk  him  his  wages,  an'  'sisted  on 
payin'  him  fu'  de  th'ee  months  he'd  been  a-layin 
thar,  'case  she  said  he  wuz  free  an'  he'd  need  all 
de  money  he  could  git.  Den  Ha'ison,  he  des 
broke  down,  an'  cried  lak  a  baby,  an'  said  he 
nevah  'spected  dat  oF  Mis'  'ud  evah  put  any  sich 
disgrace  erpon  him,  an'  th'owed  de  money  down 
in  de  dus'  an'  fell  down  on  his  knees  right  thar  in 
all  his  unifo'm. 

"Mis'  Stanton,  she  cry,  too,  an1  say  she  didn' 
mean  no  ha'm  to  him.  Den  she  tell  him  to  git 
up,  an'  he  'fuse  to  git  up,  'ceptin  she  promise  dat 
he  allus  gwine  to  drive  huh  des  lak  he  been  doin'. 

222 


The  Stanton  Coachman 

Den  she  say  she  spec'  dey  gwine  to  be  po',  an' 
he  'ply  to  huh  dat  he  don'  keer;  so  she  promise, 
an'  tek  de  money,  an'  he  git  up  happy.  Dat  look 
lak  de  end  o'  hit  all,  but  la,  chile !  dat  wuz  des  de 
beginnin',  an'  de  end  o'  hit  ain't  come  yet. 

"De  middle  paht  come  w'en  de  wah  ended, 
an'  de  ol'  Gunnel  come  back  home  all  broke  up 
f'om  de  battles,  an'  de  young  mans,  dey  nevah 
come  back  a-tall.  Daih  pappy,  he  wuz  mighty 
proud  o'  dem,  dough.  He'd  allus  say  dat  he  lef 
his  two  boys  wid  daih  feet  to  de  foe.  I  reckon 
dat's  de  way  dey  bu'y  dem.  He  wuz  a  invally 
hisse'f — dat's  what  dey  call  de  sojers  dat's  gone 
down  in  de  Valley  an'  de  Shadder  o'  Def,  an'  he 
sholy  wuz  in  de  Valley  a  long  w'ile.  But  Ha'ison 
he  des  keep  on  drivin'  dem,  dough  de  plantation 
wuz  all  to'  up,  an'  dey'd  got  mighty  po',  an'  daih 
fine  ca'iges  wuz  sold,  an'  dey  didn'  have  but  one 
hoss,  him  a-lookin'  lak  a  ol'  crow-bait.  Marfy 
patched  an'  patched  huh  man's  lib'ry  'twell  hit 
wuz  one  livin'  sight  to  behol'. 

"Wen  dat  ol'  crow-bait  o'  a  hoss  died,  him 
an'  Marfy  wouldn'  let  daih  ol'  Mis'  go  out  a-tall, 
but  Marfy,  she'd  wheel  de  Gunnel  roun'  in  his 
cheer,  w'ile  huh  man  wuz  a-hi'in'  out  so's  to  buy 
anothah  hoss  an'  a  spring  wagin.  Soon's  dey  got 
223 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

dat  de  ol'  Missis  'menced  comin'  back  to  ch'uch 
ag'in,  'case  she  mighty  'ligious  ooman,  an'  allus 
wuz.  An'  Ha'ison  he  sat  on  dat  wagin  seat  de 
same  ez  ef  he  wuz  on  de  ol'  ca'ige. 

"  'Ha'ison,'  somebody  say  to  him  one  time, 
w'yn't  you  go  on  away  f'om  hyeah  an'  mek 
somep'n'  out  yorese'f?  You  got  'telegence.' 
Ha'ison,  he  go  'long  an'  shet  his  mouf,  an'  don' 
say  nuffin'.  So  dey  say  ag'in,  'Ha'ison,  w'y  don' 
you  go  'long  up  Norf  an'  git  to  be  a  Cong'ess- 
man,  er  somep'n'  'nothah?'  Den  he  say,  'I 
don'  want  to  be  no  Cong'essman,  ner  nuffin  else. 
I  been  a-drivin'  ol'  Mis'  fu'  lo,  dese  many  yeahs, 
an'  I  don'  want  nuffin  bettah  den  des  to  keep  on 
drivin'  huh.'  W'y  dat  man,  seemed  lak  he  got 
proudah  dan  evah,  'case  hit  wuzn'  de  money  he 
wuz  lookin'  aftah;  hit  wuz  de  fambly.  Anybody 
kin  git  money,  but  Gawd  got  to  gin  yo'  quality. 

"I  don'  lak  to  talk  'bout  de  res'  o'  it.  But,  de 
spring  wagin  an'  de  hoss  had  to  go  w'en  de  Cun- 
nel  laid  down  in  de  Valley,  an'  hit  wuz  nigh  onter 
a  yeah  fo'  ol'  Mis'  Stanton  come  out  to  chu'ch 
ag'in.  But  Ha'ison  done  canned  dat  team  o' 
oxen  an'  de  cyart,  an'  dey  been  comin'  in  dat  evah 
sence.  She  des  ez  sweet  an'  ladyfied  ez  she  evah 
wuz,  an'  dat  niggah  des  ez  proud.  I  tell  you, 
224 


The  Stanton  Coachman 

man,  you  kin  kiver  hit  up  wid  rags  a  foot  deep, 
but  dey  ain'  no  way  to  keep  real  quality  Pom 
showin' !" 

The  old  man  paused  and  got  up,  for  the  for 
gotten  service  was  over  and  the  people  were  filing 
out  of  church.  When  the  old  lady  came  out 
there  were  lifted  hats  and  courtly  bows  all  along 
her  pathway,  which  she  acknowledged  with  gen 
tle  gracefulness.  Her  coachman  suddenly  be 
came  alive  again  as  he  helped  her  into  the  rude 
cart  and  climbed  in  beside  her.  She  gave  her 
hand  to  a  slim,  fine-faced  man  as  he  stopped  to 
bid  her  good-by,  then  the  oxen  turned  and  moved 
off  up  the  road  whence  they  had  come. 


225 


THE  EASTER  WEDDING. 

The  brief,  sharp  winter  had  passed  and  Eas 
ter  was  approaching.  As  Easter  Monday  was 
a  great  day  for  marrying,  Aunt  Sukey's  patience 
was  entirely  worn  out  with  her  master's  hesi-» 
tancy,  for  which  she  could  see  no  reason.  She 
had  long  ago  given  her  consent,  and  young  Liza 
had  said  "yes"  to  Ben  too  many  days  past  to  talk 
about,  and  the  old  woman  could  not  see  why  the 
white  man,  the  one  least  concerned,  should  either 
object  or  hesitate.  She  had  lorded  it  in  the 
family  for  so  long  that  it  now  seemed  very  hard 
suddenly  to  be  denied  anything. 

"I  tell  you,  Mas'  Lancaster,"  she  said,  udem 
two  chillum  been  gallantin'  wid  each  othah  too 
long  to  pa't  dem  now.  How'd  you  'a'  felt  w'en 
you  spa'kin'  Mis'  Dolly  ef  somebody  'd  'a'  helt 
you  apa't  an'  kep  you  fwom  ma'yin',  huh  ?  Cose 
I  knows  you  gwine  say  Ben  and  'Lize  des  nig- 
gahs,  but  la'  Mas'  you'd  be  s'prised  w'en  hit 
come  to  lovin',  dem  two  des  de  same  ez  white 
folks  in  dere  feelin's." 

It  was  perhaps  this  point  in  the  old  woman's 
argument  that  overcame  Robert  Lancaster's  ob- 
226 


The  Easter  Wedding 

jections.  He  surrendered  and  gave  his  consent 
to  the  marriage  of  Snkey's  Lize  and  his  boy 
Ben  on  the  Monday  following  Easter.  Great 
were  the  rejoicings  that  attended  the  announce 
ment  of  the  affair,  and  because  Sukey  herself  was 
a  great  person  on  the  plantation  and  Ben  his  mas 
ter's  valet,  the  wedding  was  to  be  no  small  one. 
As  the  days  passed  the  preparations  were  hast 
ened.  The  mistress  herself  went  into  town  and 
purchased  such  a  dress  as  only  Sukey's  daughter 
could  have  thought  of  wearing,  even  though  both 
Easter  and  her  wedding  day  came  at  the  same 
time.  The  young  mistress,  she  who  had  married 
early  but  was  widowed  and  sad  now,  had  brought 
out  a  once  used  orange  wreath  and  a  veil  as  filmy 
as  a  fairy  spider's  web,  and  both  the  white 
mother  and  daughter  took  as  deep  an  interest  in 
the  affair  as  did  the  two  black  women.  While 
Sukey  and  Liza  spun  and  wove  they  laughed, 
chatted  and  sewed,  and  they  could  not  under 
stand  why  Robert  Lancaster  kept  so  close  to  his 
library  and  looked  on  at  all  the  preparations  with 
no  gladness  in  his  eyes  and  no  mirth  on  his 
tongue.  He  was  closeted  often  with  strange  men 
from  town,  but  they  thought  very  little  of  that. 
He  was  a  popular  man,  and  it  was  not  to  be  won- 
227 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

dered  at  that  he  should  be  visited  by  people  who 
did  not  know  him. 

It  may  have  been  that  Robert  Lancaster  was 
an  arch  dissembler  or  only  that  he  was  less  trans 
parent  than  his  brother,  the  good  and  child-like 
rector,  who  cared  for  the  souls  of  the  whole 
country,  and  for  the  bodies  of  one-half  its  popu 
lation  and  took  no  thought  for  the  morrow.     It 
was  on  his  face  that  they  first  saw  the  cloud  that 
hung  over  them  all.     Robert  himself  was  slow 
to  confess  it,  and  when  his  wife  went  to  him  and 
taxed  him  with  holding  something   from  her, 
some  trouble  on  his   mind  that  he  was  bear 
ing  alone,   he   confessed  all,   and  she  took  up 
the  burden   of   it  with   him.      For  some   time 
past  things  had  gone  badly  with  him.     He  had 
been   careless  of  his  crops   and  over-indulgent 
with  his  servants.     A  man  drawn  apart  from 
the   mere   commercial   pursuits   of   life   to   the 
quieter  world  of  literature  and  art,  he  had  paid 
little  attention  to  the  affairs  of  his  plantation, 
and  suddenly  he  awoke  to  find  his  overseer  rich 
and  himself  poor.     Little  or  nothing  was  left 
of  all  that  had  been  his,  except    his    wife,    his 
daughter  and  his  memories.     But  what  grieved 
him  most  was  that  his  slaves,  beings  whom  he 
228 


The  Easter  Wedding 

had  treated  almost  as  his  own  children,  whom  he 
had  indulged  and  spoiled  until  they  were  not  fit 
to  work  for  any  other  master,  would  have  to  be 
put  upon  the  block.  He  knew  what  that  meant, 
and  felt  all  the  horror  of  it.  He  had  fostered 
fidelity  among  them  and  he  knew  that  now  it 
would  fall  back  upon  them,  bringing  only  suffer 
ing  and  pain,  for  wives  and  husbands  who  had 
been  together  for  years  must  be  separated  and 
whole  families  broken  up. 

"It  was  for  this  reason,  Dolly,"  he  said,  "that 
I  objected  to  the  marriage  of  Ben  and  Eliza. 
They  are  two,  good,  whole-souled  darkies,  and 
they  love  each  other,  I  suppose,  as  well  as  we 
ever  could  have  loved,  and  it  seems  hard  to  let 
them  go  into  the  farce  of  marrying  with  the 
chance  of  being  separated  again  in  three  or  four 
weeks." 

"Won't  you  be  able  to  keep  them  anyway, 
Robert?"  asked  his  wife. 

"No,  I  am  sorry  I  cannot.  I  shall  keep  a  few 
of  the  older  servants  who  would  be  absolutely 
useless  to  a  newr  master,  but  the  greed  of  my 
creditors  will  swallow  everything  that  is  of  any 
commercial  value." 

229 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

His  wife  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  laid 
her  cheek  against  his. 

"Never  mind,  Robert,"  she  said,  "never  mind. 
We  have  our  Dolly  still,  and  each  other.  Then 
there  is  James,  so  we  shall  get  on  very  well,  after 
all." 

"But  what  of  Ben  and  Eliza?" 

"Well,  let  them  dream  their  dream  while  they 
may.  If  the  dream  be  short,  it  will  at  least  be 
sweet." 

"It  is  not  right,"  her  husband  said,  "it  is  not 
right.  It  is  giving  them  a  false  hope  which  is 
bound  to  be  dashed  when  the  sale  comes." 

"Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof," 
said  his  brother  James,  crossing  the  threshold. 
He  joined  his  word  to  his  sister-in-law's,  and  to 
gether  they  persuaded  the  broken  man  to  let  the 
marriage  go  on,  to  let  the  two  servants  sup  what 
ever  of  joy  there  might  be  for  them.  "Perhaps," 
added  the  always  sanguine  rector,  "some  man 
will  be  good  enough  to  buy  the  two  together. 
Anyway,  we  can  try." 

By  an  effort  his  voice  was  cheerful  and  his 

manner  buoyant,  but  on  his  face  there  was  a 

deeper   shadow   than   that  which   clouded  the 

brows  of  his  brother,  for  now  when  his  all  was 

230 


The  Easter  Wedding 

gone  from  which  so  many  had  received  bounty, 
what  would  the  poor  of  the  county  do?" 

The  sad  conversation  was  hardly  finished 
when  Aunt  Sukey  came  in.  It  was  something 
more  that  she  had  to  say  about  ude  weddin' 
fixin's."  She  was  delighted  and  garrulous. 

"Tell  you  what,  Mas'  Lancaster,"  she  said, 
"hit  do  seem  to  me  lak  ol'  times  agin,  all  dis  fixin' 
an'  ca'in  on.  Tears  to  me  lak  de  day  o'  my  man 
Jeems  done  come  back  agin.  Yo'  spe't,  yo'  man- 
nah  an'  yo'  dispersition  an'  evahthing  des  de  spit- 
tin'  image  of  yo'  pa.  'Tain't  no  wunner  day 
named  you  Robbut  aftah  him.  I  'membah  how 
he  say  to  me  w'en  Jeems  come  a-courtin',  'Sukey,' 
he  say,  'Sukey,  you  gwine  ma'y  Jeems  right,  you 
gwine  ma'y  him  wid  a  preachah,  an'  you  gwine  to 
live  wid  him  'twell  you  die.  Dain't  gwine  to  be 
no  jumpin'  ovah  de  broom  an'  pa'tin'  in  a  year 
on  my  plantation.  You  gwine  to  all  de  famblies. 
La,  bless  yo'  soul !  wen  Jeems  an'  me  ma'ied,  we 
had  de  real  preachah  dah,  an'  we  stood  up  an' 
helt  han's  an'  'peated  ovah,  "twell  deaf  do  us 
pa't,'  des  lak  white  folks.  It  sho  did  mek  me 
monst'ous  happy  an'  glad  w'en  I  foun'  out  you 
gwine  to  do  de  same  wid  'Lize  an'  Ben.  'Lize 
she  a  good  gal,  an'  Ben  be  stiddy,  an'  Mas' 
231 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Jeems,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  rector,  "I  know 
you  ain't  gwine  'fuse  to  ma'y  'em  out  on  de  po'ch 
des  lak  me  an'  Jeems  was  ma'ied.  Hit'll  do  my 
oF  eyes  good.  I  kin  o'  believe  my  soul  be  fit  fu' 
glory  den." 

The  clergyman  cleared  his  throat  to  speak,  but 
the  old  woman  broke  in.  "You  ain't  gwine 
'fuse,  Mas'  Jeems?  'Lize  an'  Ben  dey  loves  one 
'nothah  in  de  real  ma'in'  way  an'  dey  hea'ts  des 
sot  on  you  jinin'  'em." 

The  brothers  gazed  for  a  moment  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  then  James  said  huskily:  UA11 
right,  Aunt  Sukey,  I'll  do  it." 

She  went  away  happy,  but  over  the  inmates  of 
the  big  house  a  gray  pall  of  sorrow  fell. 

Easter  radiant  with  flowers  and  birds  and  the 
glorious  Southern  sunshine  came  but  'Lize  had 
another  use  for  her  holiday  dress,  and  Ben  was 
ashamed  to  go,  so  neither  of  them  went  to  the 
church  service;  a  gladder,  holier  service  waited 
for  them.  There  followed  a  happy  Monday, 
then  the  night  of  the  wedding  came  and  the 
long  procession  of  servants  marched  from  Aunt 
Sukey's  cabin  in  the  quarters  up  to  the  big  house. 
The  porch  was  garlanded  and  festooned. 
Under  the  farther  end,  near  where  the  bridal 
232 


The  Easter  Wedding 

pair  would  stand,  sat  the  master's  family;  the 
dark-robed  widow,  whose  mind  went  back  sadly 
to  her  own  brief  married  life,  the  master,  the 
mistress,  and  the  rector.  His  face  was  pale  and 
set,  but  as  the  strange,  weird  wedding  song  of 
the  Negroes  came  to  his  ears  and  they  marched 
up  the  steps,  stiff,  awkward,  but  proud,  in  the 
best  clothes  they  could  muster,  he  tried  to  call 
back  to  his  features  the  far  smile  which  had  al 
ways  been  so  ready  to  welcome  them.  Eliza  and 
Ben  led  the  way.  She  radiant  in  her  new  finery 
smiling  and  bridling,  Ben  shame-faced,  head 
hung  and  shuffling,  and  behind  them  Aunt  Sukey 
in  all  the  glory  of  a  new  turban  and  happy  as  she 
had  been  with  her  Jeems  years  and  years  ago. 

They  halted  before  the  preacher  and  he 
pressed  his  brother's  hand  and  stood  up.  The 
servants  gathered  around  them,  eager  and  ex 
pectant.  The  wedding  hymn  died  away  into  the 
night,  a  low  minor  sob,  as  much  of  sorrow  in  it 
as  of  joy,  as  if  it  foreshadowed  all  that  this  mar 
riage  was  and  was  not.  Just  as  the  last  faint 
echo  died  away  into  the  woods  that  skirted  the 
lawn  and  the  waiting  silence  was  most  intense, 
the  hoot  of  an  owl  smote  upon  their  ears  and 
Eliza  turned  ashen  with  fear.  She  gripped  Ben's 
233 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

arm;  it  was  the  worst  of  omens.  James  Lancaster 
knew  the  superstitions  of  the  people  and  as  he 
heard  the  cry  of  the  evil  bird,  his  book  shook  in 
his  hand.  Was  it  prophetic?  His  voice  trem 
bled  with  more  than  one  emotion  as  he  began : 
"Dearly  beloved—" 

The  ceremony  ran  on,  a  deep-toned  solo  with 
an  accompaniment  of  the  anxious  breathing  of 
the  onlookers.  Then  the  preacher  hesitated. 
He  turned  for  an  instant  and  looked  at  his 
brother,  and  in  the  glance  was  all  the  agony  of 
a  wounded  heart.  His  next  words  were  uttered 
in  a  scarcely  audible  tone,  "till  death  do  us  part." 
And  after  him  they  all  unknowing,  repeated, 
"  'twell  deaf  do  us  pa't." 

It  was  over.  The  couples  reformed  and  fol 
lowed  the  bridal  pair  down  the  steps,  Aunt 
Sukey  hardly  containing  her  joy,  but  Ben  and 
Eliza  somehow  subdued.  As  their  feet  touched 
the  ground  of  the  lawn,  the  owl  hooted  again, 
and  ever  and  anon,  his  voice  was  heard  as  the 
procession  wound  its  stately  way  to  the  place  of 
the  next  festivities. 

In  silence,  the  family  from  the  big  house  fol 
lowed.  The  two  men  walked  together.  As  they 
234 


The  Easter  Wedding 

reached  the  door  of  the  decorated  barn,  James 
paused  and  took  his  brother's  hand. 

"Till  death  do  them  part,"  he  cried.  "My 
God !  will  it  be  death  or  the  block !"  Then  with 
hard,  forced  smiles,  they  turned  into  the  room 
to  open  the  dance  and  the  fiddles  struck  up  a 
merry  tune. 


235 


THE   FINDING  OF  MARTHA. 

Whether  one  believes  in  predestination  or  not, 
the  intenseness  with  which  Gideon  Stone  went 
toward  his  destiny  would  have  been  a  veritable 
and  material  proof  of  foreordination.  Even 
before  the  old  mistress  had  followed  her  husband 
to  the  silent  land  and  the  marriage  of  Miss  Ellen 
had  entirely  broken  up  the  home,  he  had  begun 
to  exhort  among  the  people  who  were  forming 
a  free  community  about  the  old  slave  plantation. 
The  embargo  against  negro  education  having 
been  removed,  he  learned  to  read  by  hook  and 
by  crook,  and  night  after  night  in  his  lonely  room 
he  sat  poring  over  the  few  books  that  he  could 
lay  his  hands  upon. 

Aside  from  the  semi-pastoral  duties  which  he 
had  laid  upon  himself,  his  life  was  a  lonely  one. 
For  Gideon  was  no  less  true  to  his  love  than  he 
had  been  to  his  honor.  Since  Martha  had  left 
him,  five  years  before,  no  other  woman  had  been 
enshrined  in  his  heart,  and  the  longing  was  ever 
in  him  to  go  forth  and  search  for  her.  But  his 
duties  and  his  poverty  still  held  him  bound,  and 
so  the  years  glided  away.  Gideon's  powers,  how- 
236 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

ever,  were  not  rusting  from  disuse.  He  was 
gaining  experience  and  increasing  his  knowledge. 

It  was  now  that  the  wave  of  enthusiasm  for 
the  education  of  the  blacks  swept  most  vigorously 
over  the  South,  and,  catching  him,  carried  him 
into  the  harbor  of  one  of  the  new  Southern 
schools.  The  chief  business  of  these  institutions 
then  was  the  turning  out  of  teachers  and  preach 
ers.  During  the  months  of  his  vacations  Gideon 
followed  the  former  calling  as  a  means  of  prepa 
ration  for  the  latter.  So  he  was  imparting  to 
others  the  Rule  of  Three  very  soon  after  he  had 
learned  it  himself.  He  brought  to  both  these 
new  labors  of  his  the  same  earnestness  and  seri 
ousness  that  had  characterized  his  life  on  the 
plantation.  And  in  due  course  the  little  school 
sent  him  forth  proudly  as  one  of  her  brightest 
and  best. 

The  course  being  finished,  Gideon's  first  im 
pulse  was  to  go  farther  southward,  where  his 
duty  toward  his  fellows  was  plain.  But  his  plan 
warred  with  the  longing  that  had  been  in  his 
heart  ever  since  he  had  seen  the  blue  lines  swing 
over  the  hills  and  away,  and  he  knew  that  with 
them  Martha  was  making  her  way  northward. 
He  had  never  heard  of  her  since;  but  he  did  not 
237 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

blame  her.  She  could  not  write  herself,  few 
of  her  associates  could,  and  in  the  turmoil  of  the 
times  it  would  not  be  easy  to  get  a  letter  written, 
or,  being  written,  get  it  to  him.  Not  for  one 
moment  did  he  lose  faith  in  her.  He  believed 
that  somewhere  she  was  waiting  for  him, — im 
patiently,  perhaps,  but  still  with  trust.  He  would 
go  to  her.  From  that  moment  his  search  should 
begin.  Washington  was  the  Mecca  for  his  peo 
ple  then.  Perhaps  among  those  who  had  flocked 
from  the  South  to  the  nation's  capital  he  might 
find  the  object  of  his  search.  It  was  worth  the 
trying,  so  thither  he  turned  his  steps. 

At  that  time,  when  the  first  desire  for  a  min 
ister  with  at  least  a  little  more  knowledge  than 
they  themselves  possessed  was  coming  to  the 
Negroes,  it  was  not  a  difficult  matter  for  Gideon 
to  find  a  church.  He  was  called  to  a  small  chapel 
very  shortly  after  he  arrived  in  Washington,  and 
after  pastoring  that  for  a  few  months  found  him 
self  over  the  larger  congregation  of  Shiloh 
Church,  which  was  the  mother  of  his  former 
charge. 

He  had  an  enthusiasm  for  his  work  that  gave 
him  influence  over  the  people  and  made  him 
popular  both  as  a  preacher  and  a  pastor,  while 
238 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

the  voice  that  in  the  days  gone  by  had  sung 
"Gideon's  Band"  was  mighty  in  its  aid  to  the 
volunteer  choir.  His  fame  grew  week  by  week, 
and  he  drew  around  him  a  larger  and  better 
crowd  of  his  own  people.  But  in  it  all,  his  oc 
cupations  and  his  successes,  he  did  not  forget  why 
he  had  come  to  the  city.  His  eye  was  ever  out 
for  a  glimpse  of  a  familiar  face.  With  no 
thought  of  self-aggrandizement,  he  yet  did  all  in 
his  power  to  spread  his  name  abroad,  for, 
thought  he,  "If  Martha  hears  of  me,  she  will 
come  to  me."  He  did  not  trust  to  this  method 
alone,  however,  but  went  forth  at  all  times  upon 
his  search. 

"Hit  do  'pear  to  me  moughty  funny,"  said  one 
of  his  congregation  to  another  one  day,  "dat  a 
preachah  o'  Brothah  Stone's  ability  do  hang  er- 
roun'  de  deepo  so." 

"Hang  erroun'  de  deepo!  What  you  talkin' 
'bout,  SisMandy?" 

"Dat  des  whut  I  say.  Dat  man  kin  sholy 
allus  be  foun'  at  one  deepo  er  anothah,  Sis  Lizy." 

"I  don't  know  how  dat  come,  case  he  sholy  do 
mek  his  pasto'ial  wisits." 

"I  ain't  'sputin'  de  wisits,  ner  I  ain't  a-blamin' 
de  man,  case  I  got  all  kin'  o'  faif  in  Brothah 
239 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

Gidjon  Stone,  but  I  do  say,  an'  dey's  othahs  dat 
kin  tell  you  de  same,  dat  w'en  he  ain't  a-wisitin' 
de  sick  er  a-preachin',  he  stan'  erroun'  watchin' 
de  steam-cyahs,  an'  dey  say  his  eyes  des  glisten 
w'enevah  a  train  comes  in." 

"Huh,  uh,  honey,  dey's  somep'n'  behime  dat." 

"  'Tain't  fu'  me  to  say.  Cose  I  knows  all 
edjicated  people  has  dey  cuhiousnesses,  but  dis  is 
moughty  cuhious." 

It  was  indeed  true,  as  Sister  Mandy  Belknap 
had  said,  that  Gideon  was  often  to  be  found  at 
one  or  the  other  of  the  railway  stations,  where 
he  watched  feverishly  the  incoming  and  outgoing 
trains.  Maybe  Martha  would  be  on  one  of 
them.  She  might  be  coming  in  or  going  out  any 
day,  and  so  he  was  miserable  whenever  he  missed 
a  day  at  his  post.  The  station  officials  looked 
in  wonder  at  the  slim  Negro  in  clerical  dress 
who  came  day  by  day  to  watch  with  intense  face 
the  monotonous  bustle  of  arrival  and  departure. 
Whoever  he  is,  they  thought,  he  has  been  ex 
pecting  someone  for  a  long  time. 

The  trains  went  and  the  trains  came,  and  yet 
Martha  did  not  appear,  and  the  eager  look  in 
Gideon's  face  grew  stronger.  The  intent  gaze 
with  which  he  regarded  the  world  without  grew 

240 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

keener  and  more  expectant.  It  was  as  if  all  the 
yearning  that  his  soul  had  experienced  in  all  the 
years  had  come  out  into  his  face  and  begged  pity 
of  the  world.  And  yet  there  was  none  of  this 
plea  for  pity  in  Gideon's  attitude.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  went  his  own  way,  and  a  brave,  manly 
way  it  was,  that  asked  less  of  the  world  than  it 
gave.  The  very  disappointment  which  he  re 
strained  made  him  more  helpful  to  the  generally 
disappointed  and  despised  people  to  whom  he 
ministered.  When  his  heart  ached  within  him, 
he  took  no  time  for  repining,  but  measuring  their 
pain  by  his  own,  set  out  to  find  some  remedy 
for  their  suffering.  Their  griefs  were  mirrored 
in  his  own  sorrow,  and  every  wail  of  theirs  was 
but  the  echo  of  his  own  heart's  cry.  He  drew 
people  to  him  by  the  force  of  his  sympathetic 
understanding  of  their  woes,  and  even  those  who 
came  for  his  help  and  counsel  went  away  asking 
how  so  young  a  man  could  feel  and  know  so 
much. 

Meanwhile  in  Gideon's  congregation  a  feeling 
of  unrest  seemed  taking  possession  of  the  sisters. 
In  the  privacy  of  their  families  they  spoke  of  the 
matter  which  troubled  them  to  indifferent  hus 
bands,  who  guffawed  and  went  their  several  ways 
241 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

as  if  a  momentous  question  were  not  taxing  their 
wives*  minds.  But  the  women  would  not  be  put 
off.  When  they  found  that  the  men,  with  the 
indifference  of  the  sex,  refused  to  be  interested, 
they  talked  among  themselves,  and  they  con 
cluded  without  a  dissenting  voice  that  there  was 
something  peculiar,  something  strange  and  un 
canny,  about  the  celibacy  of  the  Reverend  Gideon 
Stone.  He  was  abnormal.  He  was  the  shining 
exception  in  a  much-marrying  calling. 

A  number  of  them  were  gathered  at  Sister 
Mandy  Belknap's  home  one  Friday  evening, 
when  the  conversation  turned  to  the  preacher's 
unaccountable  course. 

"Hit  seem  mo'  unnatchul  lak,  case  preachahs 
is  mos'ly  de  marryinest  kin'  o'  men,"  said  Sister 
Lizy  Doke. 

"To  be  sho' ;  dat  what  mek  his  diffuntness  look 
so  cuhious." 

"Well,  now,  look-a-hyeah,  sistahs,"  spoke  up 
a  widow  lady  who  was  now  enjoying  a  brief 
interval  of  single-blessedness  after  a  stormy  part 
ing  with  her  fourth  spouse;  "don't  you  reckon 
dat  man  got  a  wife  som'ers?  You  know  men 
will  do  dat  thing.  I  'membah  my  third  husban'. 

242 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

Wen  I  ma'ied  him  he  had  a  wife  in  Tennessee, 
and  anothah  one  in  Fuginny.    I  know  men." 

"Brothah  Gidjon  ain't  nevah  been  ma'ied," 
said  Sister  Mandy  shortly. 

"Huccome  you  so  sho'  ?" 

"He  ain't  got  de  look;  dat's  huccome  me  so 
sho'?" 

"Huh,  uh,  honey,  dey  ain't  no  tellin'  whut  kin' 
o'  look  a  man  kin  put  on.  I  know  men,  I  tell 
you." 

"Brothah  Gidjon  ain't  ma'ied,"  reiterated  the 
hostess;  "fust  an'  fo'mos',  dey  ain't  no  foolin' 
de  pusson  on  de  ma'ied  look,  an'  he  ain't  got  it. 
Den  he  ain't  puttin'  on  no  looks,  case  Brothah 
Gidjon  is  diffunt  f'om  othah  men  mo'  ways  den 
one.  I  knows  dat  ef  I  is  only  got  my  fust  hus- 
ban'  an'  is  still  livin'  wid  him." 

The  widow  lady  instantly  subsided. 

"You  don'  reckon  Brothah  Gidjon's  been  tek- 
in'  up  any  dese  hyeah  Cath'lic  notions,  does 
you?"  ventured  another  speaker.  "You  know 
dem  Cath'lic  pries'es  don'  nevah  ma'y." 

"How's  he  gwine  to  have  any  Cath'lic  notions, 
w'en  he  bred  an'  born  an'  raised  in  de  Baptis' 
faif?" 

243 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Dey  ain't  no  tellin'.  Dey  ain't  no  tellin'. 
Wen  colo'ed  folks  git  to  gwine  to  colleges,  you 
nevah  know  what  dey  gwine  lu'n.  My  mammy's 
sistah  was  sol'  inter  Ma'ylan',  an',  bless  yo'  soul, 
she's  a  Cath'lic  to  dis  day." 

"Well,  I  don'  know  nuffin'  'bout  dat,  but  hit 
ain't  no  Cath'lic  notions,  I  tell  you.  Brothah 
Gidjon  Stone's  too  solid  fu'  dat.  Dey's  some'p'n 
else  behime  it." 

The  interest  and  curiosity  of  the  women,  now 
that  they  were  fired,  did  not  stop  at  these  private 
discussions  among  themselves.  They  went  even 
farther  and  broached  the  matter  to  the  minister. 

They  suggested  jocosely,  but  with  a  deep  vein 
of  earnestness  underlying  the  statement,  that  they 
were  looking  for  a  wife  for  him.  But  they  could 
elicit  from  him  no  response  save  "There's  time 
enough;  oh,  there's  time  enough." 

Gideon  said  this  with  an  appearance  of  cheer 
fulness,  but  in  his  heart  he  did  not  believe  it.  He 
did  not  think  that  there  was  time.  His  body, 
his  mind,  his  soul  all  yearned  hotly  for  the  com 
panionship  of  the  woman  he  loved.  There  are 
some  men  born  to  be  husbands,  just  as  there  are 
some  men  born  to  be  poets,  painters,  or  musicians 
— men  who,  living  alone,  cannot  know  life. 
244 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

Gideon  was  one  of  these.  Every  instinct  of  his 
being  drove  him  towards  domestic  life  with  un 
flagging  insistency.  But  it  was  Martha  whom 
he  wanted.  Martha  whom  he  loved  and  with 
whom  he  had  plighted  his  troth.  What  to  him 
were  the  glances  of  other  women?  What  the 
seduction  in  their  eyes,  and  the  unveiled  invita 
tion  in  their  smiles?  There  was  one  woman  in 
the  world  to  him,  and  she  loomed  so  large  to  his 
sight  that  he  could  see  no  other.  How  he  waited ; 
how  he  longed;  how  he  prayed!  And  the  days 
passed,  the  trains  came  and  went,  and  still  no 
word,  no  sight  of  Martha. 

Strangers  came  to  his  church,  and  visitors 
from  other  cities  came  to  him,  and  still  nothing 
of  her  for  whom  he  waited  to  make  his  life 
complete.  Then  one  day  in  the  silence  of  his  own 
sorrow  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  crying,  "My  God, 
my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?"  And 
from  then  hope  fled  from  him.  She  was  dead. 
She  must  be,  or  she  would  have  come  to  him. 
He  had  waited  long,  oh,  so  long,  and  now  it  was 
all  over.  For  the  rest  of  his  days  he  must  walk 
the  way  of  his  life  alone  or — could  he,  could  he 
turn  his  eyes  upon  another  woman  ?  No,  no,  his 
heart  cried  out  to  him,  and  he  felt  in  that  moment 
245 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

as  a  man  standing  beside  his  wife's  bier  would 
feel  should  the  thought  of  another  obtrude  it 
self. 

He  went  to  the  trains  no  more.  He  searched 
no  more;  hope  was  dead;  but  the  one  object  that 
had  blinded  him,  that  had  given  him  single  sight, 
being  removed,  he  began  to  look  around  him  and 
to  see — at  first  it  seemed  almost  a  revelation — 
other  women.  Now  he  saw  too  their  glances 
and  their  smiles.  He  heard  the  tender  notes  in 
their  voices  as  they  spoke  to  him,  for  all  other 
sounds  were  no  longer  drowned  by  Martha's 
calling  to  him  from  the  Unknown.  When  first 
he  found  himself  giving  fuller  range  to  his 
narrow  vision,  he  was  startled,  then  apologetic, 
then  defiant.  The  man  in  him  triumphed. 
Martha  was  dead.  He  was  alone.  Must  he 
always  be?  Was  life,  after  all,  to  be  but  this 
bitter  husk  to  him  when  he  had  but  to  reach 
forth  his  hand  to  find  the  kernel  of  it? 

He  had  never  even  been  troubled  with  such 
speculations  before,  but  now  he  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  yet  old  and  that  the  long 
stretch  of  life  before  him  looked  dreary  enough 
if  he  must  tread  it  by  himself. 
246 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

In  this  crisis  the  tempter,  who  is  always  an 
opportunist,  came  to  Gideon.  Sister  Mandy 
Belknap  had  always  manifested  a  great  deal  of 
interest  in  the  preacher's  welfare,  a  surprising 
amount  for  a  woman  who  had  no  daughter. 
However,  she  had  a  niece.  Now  she  came  to 
the  pastor  with  a  grave  face. 

"Brothah  Stone,"  she  said,  "I  got  some  talk 
fu'  you." 

"Yes,  Sister  Belknap?"  said  Gideon,  settling 
himself  complacently,  with  the  expectation  of 
hearing  some  tale  of  domestic  woe  or  some  his 
tory  of  spiritual  doubt,  for  among  his  congrega 
tion  he  was  often  the  arbiter  in  such  affairs. 

"Now,  I's  ol'  enough  fu'  yo'  mothah,"  Sister 
Mandy  went  on,  and  at  the  words  the  minister 
became  suddenly  alert,  for  from  her  introduction 
her  visit  seemed  to  be  admonitory,  rather  than 
appealing.  Evidently  he  was  not  to  give  advice, 
but  to  be  advised.  He  was  not  to  be  the  advo 
cate,  but  the  defendant;  not  the  judge,  but  the 
culprit. 

"I's  seed  mo'  of  life  den  you  has,  Brothah 
Gidjon,  ef  I  do  say  hit  myse'f." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,  my  sister." 
247 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"An'  I  knows  mo'  'bout  men  an'  women  den 
you  does.  Co'se  you  know  mo'  'bout  Scripter 
den  I  does,  dough  I  ricollect  dat  de  Lawd  said 
dat  it  ain't  good  fu'  man  to  be  alone." 

Gideon  started.  It  was  as  if  the  old  woman 
had  by  some  occult  power  divined  the  trend  of 
his  thoughts  and  come  to  take  part  in  the  direc 
tion  of  them. 

"The  Bible  surely  says  that,  Sister  Belknap," 
he  said  when  the  first  surprise  was  over. 

"It  do,  an'  I  want  to  know  ef  you  ain't  a-flyin' 
in  de  face  o'  Providence  by  doin'  what  hit  say 
ain't  good  fu'  a  man?" 

Gideon  was  a  little  bit  puzzled,  but  in  answer 
he  began,  "There  are  circumstances " 

"Dat's  des'  hit,"  said  Sister  Mandy  impres 
sively;  "sarcumstances,  sarcumstances,  an'  evah 
man  dat  wants  to  disobey  de  wo'd  t'inks  he's  got 
de  sarcumstances.  Uh !  I  tell  you  de  ol'  boy  is 
a  moughty  clevah  han'  at  mekin'  excuses  fu' 


us." 


"I  don't  reckon,  sister,  that  we've  got  the  same 
point  of  view,"  said  Gideon  nervously. 

"  'Tain't  my  p'int  of  view,  'tain't  mine;  hit's 
de  Lawd  A'mighty's.  You  young,  Brothah 
Gidjon,  you  young,  an'  you  don'  see  lak  I  does, 
248 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

but  lemme  tell  you,  hit  ain't  right  fu'  no  man 
whut  ain't  ma'ied  to  be  a-pasto'n  no  sich  a  flock. 
I  don'  want  to  meddle  into  yo'  business,  but  all  I 
got  to  say  is,  you  bettah  look  erroun'  you  an' 
choose  a  wife  fu'  to  be  yo'  he'pmeet.  'Scuse  me 
fu'  speakin'  to  you,  Brothah.  Go  'roun'  an'  see 
my  niece.  She  kin  p'int  out  some  moughty  nice 


women." 


"It  was  mighty  good  of  you  to  speak,  and  I 
am  glad  that  you  came  to  me.  I  will  think  over 
what  you  have  said." 

"  'It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  'alone,'  ' 
mused  Gideon  when  his  visitor  was  gone.  Was 
not  this  just  the  word  of  help  and  encouragement 
that  he  had  wanted — indeed,  the  one  that  he  had 
been  waiting  for?  He  had  been  faithful,  he 
told  himself.  He  had  looked  and  he  had  waited. 
Martha  had  not  come,  and  was  it  not  true  that 
"it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone?"  He  went 
to  bed  that  night  with  the  sentence  ringing  in 
his  head. 

Mandy  Belknap  had  done  her  work  well,  for 
on  the  following  Sunday  the  preacher  smiled  on 
her  niece,  Caroline  Martin,  and  on  the  Sunday 
after  that  he  walked  home  to  dinner  with  her. 
249 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

What  the  gossips  said  about  it  at  the  time, 
how  they  gazed  and  chattered,  and  with  what 
a  feeling  of  self-satisfaction  Sister  Mandy  went 
her  way,  are  details  that  do  not  belong  to  this 
story.  However,  one  cannot  pass  over  Gideon's 
attitude  in  this  new  matter.  It  is  true  that  he 
found  himself  liking  Caroline  better  and  better 
the  more  frequently  he  saw  her.  The  girl's 
pretty  ways  pleased  him.  She  was  a  member  of 
his  choir,  and  he  thought  often  how  like 
Martha's  her  voice  was.  Indeed,  he  was  wont 
to  compare  her  with  this  early  love  of  his,  and 
it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  cared  for  her  not 
so  much  for  what  she  was  herself,  but  for  the 
few  points  in  which  she  resembled  his  lost  sweet 
heart.  He  was  not  wooing  (if  wooing  his  atten 
tions  could  be  called)  Caroline  Martin  as  Caro 
line  Martin,  but  only  as  a  proxy  for  his  own 
unforgotten  Martha,  for  even  now,  in  the  face 
of  hopelessness,  his  love  and  faith  were  stronger 
than  he. 

Caroline  Martin  was  the  most  envied  girl  in 
Shiloh  Church,  for,  indeed,  hers  was  no  slight 
distinction,  to  be  singled  out  by  the  minister  for 
his  special  attention  after  so  long  a  period  of 
indifference.  But  envy  and  gossip  passed  her 
250 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

by  as  the  idle  wind,  for  the  very  honor  which 
had  been  accorded  her  placed  her  above  the 
reach  of  petty  jealousies.  Her  triumph,  how 
ever,  was  to  be  brief. 

It  was  on  a  rainy  Sunday  night  in  October,  a 
late  Washington  October,  which  has  in  it  all 
the  possibilities  of  nastiness  given  to  weather. 
Shiloh  Chapel  was  well  filled  despite  the  storm 
without.  Gideon  was  holding  forth  in  his  ac 
customed  way,  vigorously,  eloquently,  and  con 
vincingly.  His  congregation  was  warming  up 
to  a  keen  appreciation  of  his  sermon,  when  sud 
denly  the  door  opened,  and  a  drabbled,  forlorn- 
looking  woman  entered  and  sank  into  a  back 
seat.  One  glance  at  her,  and  the  words  died  on 
Gideon's  lips.  He  paused  for  a  moment  and 
swayed  upon  his  feet  while  his  heart  beat  a  wild 
tattoo. 

It  was  Martha,  his  Martha,  but,  oh,  how 
sadly  changed !  His  heart  fell  a-bleeding  for  her 
as  he  saw  the  once  proud  woman  sitting  there 
crouched  in  her  seat  among  the  well-dressed 
people  like  the  humblest  of  creatures.  He  wranted 
to  stop  right  there  in  the  midst  of  his  sermon 
and  go  rushing  to  her,  to  take  her  in  his  arms 
251 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

and  tell  her  that  if  the  world  had  dealt  hard  with 
her,  he  at  least  was  true. 

It  was  a  long  pause  he  made,  and  the  con 
gregation  was  looking  at  him  in  surprise.  Then 
he  recovered  himself,  and  went  on  with  his  ex 
hortation,  hastily,  feverishly.  He  could  scarcely 
wait  to  be  done. 

The  last  words  of  the  benediction  fell  from 
his  lips  and  he  hastened  down  the  aisle,  elbowing 
his  way  through  the  detaining  crowd,  his  face 
set  toward  one  point.  Someone  spoke  to  him 
as  he  passed,  but  he  did  not  hear;  a  hand  was 
stretched  out  to  him,  but  he  did  not  see  it.  There 
was  but  one  thought  in  his  mind. 

He  reached  the  seat  in  the  corner  of  which 
Martha  had  crouched.  She  was  gone.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  dazed,  and  then  dashed  out  into 
the  rain  and  darkness.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen 
of  her,  and  hatless  he  ran  on  down  the  street, 
hoping  to  strike  the  direction  in  which  she  had 
started  and  so  overtake  her.  But  she  had  evi 
dently  gone  directly  across  the  street  or  turned 
another  way.  Sad  and  dejected  and  wondering 
somewhat,  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  church. 

It  was  Martha;  there  could  be  no  doubt  of 
that.  But  why  such  an  act  from  her?  It  seemed 
252 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

as  if  she  had  purposely  avoided  him.  What  had 
he  done  to  her  that  she  should  treat  him  thus? 
She  must  have  some  reason.  It  was  not  like 
Martha.  Yes,  there  was  some  good  reason,  he 
knew.  Faith  came  back  to  him  then.  He  had 
seen  her.  She  was  living  and  he  would  see  her 
again.  His  heart  lightened  and  bounded. 
Martha  was  found. 

Sister  Belknap  was  waiting  for  him  when  he 
got  back  to  the  church  door,  and  beside  her  the 
comely  Caroline. 

"Wy,  Brcthah  Gidjon,"  said  the  elder  woman, 
"what's  de  mattah  wid  you  to-night?  You  des 
shot  outen  de  do'  lak  a  streak  o'  lightnin',  an' 
baih-headed,  ez  I  live  !  I  lay  you'll  tek  yo'  death 
o'  col'  dis  hyeah  night." 

"I  saw  an  old  friend  of  mine  from  the  South 
in  church  and  I  wanted  to  catch  her  before  she 
got  away,  but  she  wras  gone." 

There  was  something  in  the  minister's  voice, 
a  tone  or  an  inflection,  that  disturbed  Sister 
Belknap's  complacency,  and  with  a  sharp,  "Come 
on,  Ca'line,"  she  bade  him  good-night  and  went 
her  way.  He  saw  them  go  off  together  without 
a  pang.  As  he  got  his  hat  and  started  home,  his 
253 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

only  thought  was  of  Martha  and  how  she  would 
come  again,  and  he  was  happy. 

The  next  Sunday  he  watched  every  new-comer 
to  the  church  with  eager  attention,  and  so  at 
night;  but  Martha  was  not  among  them.  Sun 
day  after  Sunday  told  the  same  story,  and  again 
Gideon's  heart  failed  him.  Maybe  Martha  did 
not  want  to  see  him.  Maybe  she  was  married, 
and  his  heart  grew  cold  at  that. 

For  over  a  month,  however,  his  vigilance  did 
not  relax,  and  finally  his  faith  was  rewarded.  In 
the  midst  of  his  sermon  he  saw  Martha  glide  in 
and  slip  into  a  seat.  He  ended  quickly,  and 
leaving  the  benediction  to  be  pronounced  by  a 
"local  preacher,"  he  hurried  down  the  aisle  and 
was  at  her  side  just  as  she  reached  the  door  ahead 
of  everyone. 

"Martha,  Martha,  thank  the  Lord  I"  he  cried, 
taking  her  hand. 

"Oh  Gid — I  mean  Brothah — er — Reverent 
— I  must  go  'long."  The  woman  was  painfully 
embarrassed. 

"I  am  going  with  you,"  he  said  firmly,  still 
holding  her  hand  as  he  led  her  protesting  from 
the  church. 

254 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  go  with  me,"  she  cried, 
shrinking  from  him. 

"Why,  Martha,  what  have  I  done  to  you? 
I've  been  waiting  for  you  so  long." 

She  had  begun  to  sob  now,  and  Gideon,  with 
out  pausing  to  think  whether  she  were  married 
or  not,  put  his  arm  tenderly  about  her.  "Tell 
me  what  it  is,  Martha?  What  has  kept  you 
from  me  so  long?" 

"I  ain't  no  fittin'  pusson  fu'  you  now,  Gidjon." 

"What  is  it?    You're  not — are  you  married?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  kept  the  light?" 

"Yes,  thank  de  Lawd,  even  wid  all  my  low- 
downness,  I's  kept  de  light  in  my  soul." 

"Then  that's  all,  Martha?" 

"No,  it  ain't — it  ain't.  I  wouldn't  stay  wid 
you  w'en  you  axed  me,  an'  I  came  up  hyeah  an' 
got  po'er  an'  po'er,  an'  dey's  been  times  w'en  I 
ain't  had  nothin'  ha'dly  to  go  on;  but  I  wouldn't 
sen'  you  no  wo'd,  case  I  was  proud  an'  I  was 
ashamed  case  I  run  off  to  fin'  so  much  an'  only 
foun'  dis.  Den  I  hyeahed  dat  you  was  edjicated 
an'  comin'  hyeah  to  preach.  Dat  made  you 
furder  away  f'om  me,  an'  I  knowed  you  wasn' 
fu'  me  no  mo'.  It  lak  to  killed  me,  but  I  stuck 
255 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

it  out.  Many  an'  many's  de  time  I  seen  you  an' 
could  'a'  called  you,  but  I  thought  you'd  be 
ashamed  o'  me." 

"Martha!" 

"I  wouldn'  'a'  come  to  yo'  chu'ch,  but  I  wanted 
to  hyeah  yo'  voice  ag'in  des  once.  Den  I  wouldn' 
'a'  come  back  no  mo',  case  I  thought  you  recker- 
nized  me.  But  I  had  to — I  had  to.  I  was 
hongry  to  hyeah  you  speak.  But  go  back  now, 
Gidjon,  I'm  near  home,  an'  I  can't  tek  you  to 
dat  po'  place." 

But  Gideon  marched  right  on.  A  light  was  in 
his  face  and  a  springiness  in  his  step  that  had 
been  absent  for  many  a  day.  She  halted  before 
a  poor  little  house,  two  rooms  at  the  most,  the 
front  one  topped  with  a  stove-pipe  which  did 
duty  as  a  chimney. 

"Hyeah's  whaih  I  live,"  she  said  shame 
facedly;  "you  would  come." 

They  went  in.  The  little  room,  ill  furnished, 
was  clean  and  neat,  and  the  threadbare  carpet 
was  scrupulously  swept. 

Gideon  had  been  too  happy  to  speak,  but  now 
he  broke  silence.     "This  is  just  about  the  size  of 
the  cabin  we'd  have  had  if  the  war  hadn't  come 
on.    Can  you  get  ready  by  to-morrow  ?" 
256 


The  Finding  of  Martha 

"No,  no,  I  ain't  fu'  you,  Gidjon.  I  ain't  got 
nothin'.  I  don't  know  nothin'  but  ha'd  work. 
What  would  I  look  lak  among  yo'  fine  folks?" 

"You'd  look  like  my  Martha,  and  that's  what 
you're  going  to  do." 

Her  eyes  began  to  shine.  "Gidjon,  you  don't 
mean  it!  I  thought  when  colo'ed  folks  got 
edjicated  dey  fu'got  dey  mammys  an'  dey  pap- 
pys  an'  dey  ol'  frien's  what  can't  talk  straight." 

"Martha,"  said  Gideon,  "did  you  ever  hear 
'Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee'  played  on  a  banjo?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  know  the  instrument  isn't  much, 
but  it's  the  same  sweet  old  tune.  That's  the 
way  it  is  when  old  friends  tell  me  their  love  and 
friendship  brokenly.  Can't  you  see?" 

They  talked  long  that  night,  and  Gideon 
brought  Martha  to  his  way  of  thinking,  though 
she  held  out  for  less  haste.  She  exacted  a  week. 

On  the  following  Sunday  the  Reverend 
Gideon  Stone  preached  as  his  congregation  had 
never  heard  him  preach  before,  and  after  the 
service,  being  asked  to  remain,  they  were  treated 
to  a  surprise  that  did  their  hearts  good.  A 
brother  pastor,  mysteriously  present,  told  their 
257 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

story  and  performed  the  ceremony  between 
Gideon  and  Martha. 

So  many  of  them  were  just  out  of  slavery.  So 
many  of  them  knew  what  separation  and  fruit 
less  hope  of  re-meeting  were,  that  it  was  an 
event  to  strike  home  to  their  hearts.  Some 
wept,  some  rejoiced,  and  all  gathered  around  the 
pastor  and  his  wife  to  grasp  their  hands. 

And  then  Martha  was  back  on  the  old  planta 
tion  again  and  her  love  and  Gideon's  was  young, 
and  she  never  knew  why  she  did  it,  but  suddenly 
her  voice,  the  voice  that  Gideon  had  loved,  broke 
into  one  of  the  old  plantation  hymns.  He  joined 
her.  Members  from  the  old  South  threw  back 
their  heads,  and,  seeing  the  yellow  fields,  the 
white  cabins,  the  great  house,  in  the  light  of 
other  days,  fell  into  the  chorus  that  shook  the 
church,  and  people  passing  paused  to  listen,  say 
ing, — 

'There's  a  great  time  at  Shiloh  to-day." 

And  there  was. 


258 


THE    DEFECTION    OF    MARIA    ANN 
GIBBS. 

There  had  been  a  wonderful  season  of  grace 
at  Bethel  Chapel  since  the  advent  of  the  new 
minister,  and  the  number  of  converts  who  had 
entered  the  fold  put  the  record  of  other  years 
and  other  pastors  to  shame.  Seats  that  had  been 
empty  were  filled;  collections  that  had  been 
meagre  were  now  ample.  The  church  had  been 
improved;  a  coat  of  paint  had  been  put  on  the 
outside,  and  the  interior  had  been  adorned  by 
a  strip  of  carpet  down  the  two  aisles  and  pink 
calcimining  on  the  walls.  The  Rev.  Eleazar 
Jackson  had  proved  a  most  successful  shepherd. 
The  fact  was  shown  by  the  rotundity  of  his  form, 
which  bespoke  good  meals,  and  the  newness  of 
his  clothes,  which  argued  generous  contribu 
tions. 

He  was  not  only  a  very  eloquent  man,  but  had 
social  attainments  of  a  high  order.  He  was 
immensely  popular  with  the  sisters,  and  was  on 
such  good  terms  with  the  brothers  that  they  for 
got  to  be  jealous  of  him.  When  he  happened 
around  about  an  hour  before  dinner-time,  and 
259 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

some  solicitous  sister  killed  for  him  the  fattening 
fowl  which  her  husband  had  been  watching  with 
eager  eyes,  Mr.  Jackson  averted  any  storm  which 
might  have  followed  by  such  a  genial  presence 
and  such  a  raciness  of  narration  at  the  table  that 
the  head  of  the  house  forgot  his  anger  and 
pressed  the  preacher  to  have  some  more  of  the 
chicken. 

Notwithstanding  this  equality  of  regard  on 
the  part  of  both  brothers  and  sisters,  it  was  yet 
noticeable  that  the  larger  number  of  the  converts 
were  drawn  from  the  tenderer  sex — but  human 
nature  is  human  nature,  women  are  very  much 
women,  and  the  preacher  was  a  bachelor. 

Among  these  gentle  converts  none  was  more 
zealous,  more  ardent  or  more  constant  than 
Maria  Ann  Gibbs.  She  and  her  bosom  friend, 
Lucindy  Woodyard,  had  ucome  th'oo"  on  the 
same  night,  and  it  was  a  wonderful  event.  They 
shouted  all  over  Bethel  Chapel.  When  one  went 
up  one  aisle  the  other  came  down  the  other. 
When  one  cried  "Hallelujah !"  the  other  shouted 
"Glory!"  When  one  skipped  the  other  jumped, 
and  finally  they  met  in  front  of  the  altar,  and 
binding  each  other  in  a  joyous  embrace,  they 
swayed  back  and  forth  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
260 


The  Defection  of  Maria  Ann  Gibbs 

hymn  that  was  rising  even  above  their  own  re 
joicings,  and  which  asserted  that, 

"Jedgement  Day  is  a-rollin7  round', 
Er  how  I  long  to  be  there !" 

It  was  a  wonderfully  affecting  sight,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  the  whole  church  was  in  a 
tumult  of  rejoicings.  These  two  damsels  were 
very  popular  among  their  people,  and  every 
young  man  who  had  looked  with  longing  eyes 
at  Lucindy,  or  sighed  for  the  brown  hand  of 
Maria  Ann,  joined  in  the  shouting,  if  he  was  one 
of  the  "saved,"  or,  if  he  was  not,  hastened  up  to 
fall  prostrate  at  the  mourners'  bench.  Thus 
were  the  Rev.  Eleazar  Jackson's  meetings  a 
great  success,  and  his  name  became  great  in  the 
land. 

From  the  moment  of  their  conversion  Lucindy 
and  Maria  Ann  went  hand  in  hand  into  the  good 
work  for  the  benefit  of  the  church,  and  they 
were  spoken  of  as  especially  active  young  mem 
bers.  There  was  not  a  sociable  to  be  given,  nor 
a  donation  party  to  be  planned,  nor  a  special 
rally  to  be  effected,  but  that  these  two  consulted 
each  other  and  carried  the  affair  to  a  successful 
issue.  The  Rev.  Eleazar  often  called  attention 
261 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

to  them  in  his  exhortations  from  the  pulpit,  spoke 
of  the  beautiful  harmony  between  them,  and 
pointed  it  out  as  an  example  to  the  rest  of  his 
flock.  He  had  a  happy  turn  for  phrase-making, 
which  he  exercised  when  he  called  the  two  "twin 
sisters  in  the  great  new  birth  o'  grace." 

For  a  year  the  church  grew  and  waxed  strong, 
and  the  minister's  power  continued,  and  peace 
reigned.  Then  as  the  rain  clouds  creep  slowly 
over  the  mountain-top  and  bring  the  storm  thun 
dering  down  into  the  valley,  so  ominous  signs 
began  to  appear  upon  the  horizon  of  Bethel's 
religious  and  social  life.  At  first  these  warning 
clouds  were  scarcely  perceptible;  in  fact,  there 
were  those  unbelievers  who  said  that  there  would 
be  no  storm ;  but  the  mutterings  grew  louder. 

The  first  sign  of  danger  was  apparent  in  the 
growing  coolness  between  Lucindy  and  Maria 
Ann.  They  were  not  openly  or  aggressively 
enemies,  but  from  being  on  that  high  spiritual 
plane,  where  the  outward  signs  of  fellowship 
were  not  needed,  and  on  which  they  called  each 
other  by  their  first  names,  they  had  come  down 
to  a  level  which  required,  to  indicate  their  rela 
tions  one  to  the  other,  the  interchange  of  "Sis 
ter  Gibbs"  and  "Sister  Woodyard."  There  had 
262 


The  Defection  of  Maria  Ann  Gibbs 

been  a  time  when  they  had  treated  each  other 
with  loving  and  familiar  discourtesy,  but  now 
they  were  scrupulously  polite.  If  one  broke  in 
upon  the  other's  remarks  in  church  council,  it 
was  with  an  "Excuse  me,  Sis'  Gibbs,"  or  "I  beg 
yo'  pa'don,  Sis'  Woodyard,"  and  each  seemed 
feverishly  anxious  to  sacrifice  herself  to  make 
way  for  the  other. 

Then  they  came  to  work  no  more  together. 
The  separation  was  effected  without  the  least 
show  of  anger.  They  simply  drifted  apart,  and 
Lucindy  found  herself  at  the  head  of  one  faction 
and  Maria  Ann  in  the  lead  of  another.  Here 
for  a  time  a  good-natured  rivalry  was  kept  up, 
much  to  the  increase  of  Bethel's  finances  and 
its  minister's  satisfaction.  But  an  uncertain  and 
less  genial  note  began  to  creep  into  these  con 
tests  as  the  Rev.  Eleazar  Jackson  continued  to 
smile  upon  both  the  ardent  sisters. 

The  pastor  at  Bethel  had  made  such  a  glow 
ing  record  as  a  financier  that  the  Bishop  had 
expressed  his  satisfaction  by  a  special  letter,  and 
requested  that  at  the  June  rally  he  make  an 
extra  effort  to  raise  funds  for  the  missionary 
cause.  Elated  at  this  mark  of  distinction,  and 
with  visions  of  a  possible  Presiding  Eldership 
263 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

in  his  mind,  Mr.  Jackson  sought  out  his  two 
most  attractive  parishioners  and  laid  his  case 
before  them.  It  was  in  the  chapel,  immediately 
after  the  morning  service,  that  he  got  them  to 
gether. 

"You  see,  sisters,"  he  said,  "Bethel  have  made 
a  record  which  she  have  to  sustain.  She  have 
de  reputation  o'  bein'  one  o'  the  most  lib'l 
chu'ches  in  de  Confer'nce.  Now  we  don't  want 
to  disa'point  the  Bishop  when  he  picks  us  out  to 
help  him  in  such  a  good  cause.  O'  co'se  I 
knowed  who  I  could  depend  on,  an'  so  I  come 
right  to  you  sisters  to  see  if  you  couldn't  plan 
out  some'p'n  that  would  make  a  real  big  splurge 
at  de  June  rally." 

He  paused  and  waited  for  the  sisters  to  reply. 
They  were  both  silent.  This  made  him  uneasy, 
and  he  said,  "What  you  think,  Sister  Gibbs?" 

"Oh,"  said  Maria  Ann,  "I'm  waitin'  to  hyeah 
f'om  Sis'  Woodyard." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Sister  Woodyard  politely, 
"don'  wait  on  me,  Sis'  Gibbs.  'Spress  yo'se'f, 
'spress  yo'se'f." 

But  Maria  Ann  still  demurred.  "I  couldn't 
think  o'  puttin'  my  po'  opinions  up  'fo'  Sis  Wood- 
yard,"  she  said.  "I'd  a  good  deal  ruther  wait 
264 


The  Defection  of  Maria  Ann  Gibbs 

to  hyeah  fom  my  elders."  She  laid  especial 
stress  on  the  last  word. 

Lucindy  smiled  a  smile  so  gentle  that  it  was 
ominous. 

"I  ain't  holdin'  back  'ecause  I  cain't  think  o' 
nothing"  she  said,  "but  jes'  'ecause  I  ain't  been 
used  to  puttin'  myse'f  forrard,  an'  I  don't  like  to 
begin  it  so  late."  And  she  smiled  again. 

The  minister  began  to  feel  uneasy.  Figura 
tively  speaking,  both  of  the  sisters  seemed  to  be 
sparring  for  wind,  and  he  thought  it  better  to 
call  the  council  to  a  close  and  see  each  one 
separately. 

"Well,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "I  know  you  sisters 
will  come  to  some  conclusion,  an'  jes'  'po't  to  me 
on  next  Wednesday  night,  an'  I  will  pass  a  kind 
o'  'view  over  yo'  plans,  an'  offer  a  su'jestion, 
mebbe.  We  want  to  do  some'p'n  that  will  bring 
out  de  people  an'  mek  'em  give  gen'ously  of  their 
means  for  de  benefit  o'  de  heathen." 

The  two  sisters  bowed  very  politely  to  each 
other,  shook  the  minister's  hand,  and  went  their 
different  ways. 

It  must  have  been  Satan  himself  who  effected 
the  result  of  having  both  women  hit  upon  the 
same  plan  of  action.  Maria  Ann  was  pleased 
265 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

at  her  idea,  and  hastened  to  church  on  Wednes 
day  evening  to  report  it  to  the  pastor,  only  to 
find  that  Lucindy  Woodyard  had  been  before 
her  with  the  same  plan. 

"I  mus'  congratulate  you,  sisters,"  said  the 
Rev.  Eleazar,  "bofe  upon  yo'  diligence  an'  yo' 
fo'thought.  It  must  'a'  been  P'ovidence  that 
directed  bofe  yo1  min's  in  de  same  channel." 

Both  the  sisters  were  aghast.  They  had  both 
suggested  dividing  the  church  into  soliciting 
parties  and  giving  a  prize  to  the  one  collecting 
the  highest  amount  of  money.  Perhaps  the 
Devil  was  not  so  much  concerned  in  making  their 
minds  revert  to  this  as  it  appeared,  as  it  is  a  very 
common  device  for  raising  money  among  negro 
churches.  However,  both  the  women  were  dis 
appointed. 

"I'd  jes'  leave  draw  out  an'  let  Sis'  Gibbs  go 
on  an'  manage  dis  affair,"  said  Lucindy. 

"I'd  ruther  be  excused,"  said  Maria  Ann,  "an' 
leave  it  in  Sis'  Woodyard's  han's." 

But  the  minister  was  wily  enough  to  pour  oil 
on  the  troubled  waters,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
suggest  a  solution  of  the  problem  that  would 
enlist  the  sympathies  and  ambition  of  both  the 
women. 

266 


The  Defection  of  Maria  Ann  Glbbs 

"Now  I  su'jest,"  he  said,  "that  bofe  you  sis 
ters  remains  in  dis  contest,  an'  then,  instid  o' 
throwin'  the  competition  open,  you  sisters  by 
yo'se'ves  each  be  de  head  o'  a  pa'ty  that  shall 
bring  de  money  to  you,  an'  the  one  of  you  that 
gets  the  most  f  om  her  pa'ty  shall  have  de  prize." 

Lucindy's  eyes  glittered,  and  Maria  Ann's 
flashed,  as  they  agreed  to  the  contest  with  joyful 
hearts.  Here  should  be  a  trial  of  both  strength 
and  prowess,  and  it  would  be  shown  who  was 
worthy  to  walk  the  ways  of  life  side  by  side  with 
the  Rev.  Eleazar  Jackson. 

Joyfully  they  went  to  their  tasks.  Their  en 
thusiasm  inspired  their  followers  with  partisan 
energy.  Side  bantered  side,  and  party  taunted 
party,  but  the  leaders  kept  up  a  magnificent  calm. 
It  was  not  they  alone  who  knew  that  there  was 
more  at  stake  than  the  prize  that  was  offered, 
that  they  had  more  in  view  than  the  good  of  the 
heathen  souls.  There  were  other  eyes  that  saw 
and  minds  that  understood  besides  those  of 
Lucindy,  Maria  Ann  and  the  preacher. 

Pokey  Williams,  who  was  very  warm  in  the 
Gibbs  faction,  called  from  the  fence  to  her  neigh 
bor,  Hannah  Lewis,  who  was  equally  ardent  on 
267 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

the  other  side:  "How  yo'  collection  come  on, 
Sis' Lewis?" 

"Oh,  middlin',  middlin' ;  de  w'ite  folks  I  wok 
fu'  done  promise  me  some'p'n,  my  grocery  man 
he  gwine  give  me  some'p'n,  an'  I  got  fo'  dollahs 
in  little  bits  a'ready." 

"Oomph,"  said  Pokey,  "you  jes'  boun'  an' 
'termine  to  ma'y  Lucindy  Woodyard  to  de 
preachah !" 

"G'way  f'om  hyeah,  Pokey,  you  is  de  beat- 
enes' !  How  you  gittin'  on?" 

"Heish,  gal,  my  w'ite  folks  done  gi'  me  ten 
dollahs  a'ready,  an'  I'm  jes'  tacklin'  evahbody  I 
know." 

"Ten  dollahs!  W'y,  dey  ain'  no  way  fu'  de 
preachah  to  git  erway  f'om  Maria  Ann  Gibbs  ef 
you  keep  on!" 

The  two  waved  their  hands  at  each  other  and 
broke  into  a  rollicking  laugh. 

The  rally  in  June  was  the  greatest  the  annals 
of  Bethel  Chapel  had  ever  recorded.  The  prize 
decided  upon  was  a  gold  watch,  and  on  the 
evening  that  the  report  and  decision  were  to  be 
made,  a  hall  had  to  be  procured,  for  the  chapel 
would  not  hold  the  crowd.  A  brief  concert 
was  given  first  to  get  the  people  in  a  good  humor, 
268 


The  Defection  of  Maria  Ann  Gibbs 

and  to  whet  their  anxiety,  and  though  the  per 
formers  were  well  received,  little  attention  was 
paid  to  them,  for  every  one  was  on  the  qui  vive 
for  the  greater  drama  of  the  evening.  The  min 
ister  was  in  his  glory. 

When  the  concert  was  over,  he  welcomed 
Lucindy  and  Maria  Ann  to  the  stage,  where  they 
sat,  one  on  either  side  of  him.  The  reports 
began.  First  one  from  Lucindy's  side,  then  one 
from  Maria  Ann's,  and  so  alternately  through. 
It  was  very  close !  The  people  were  leaning  for 
ward,  eager  and  anxious  for  the  issue.  The  re 
ports  came  thick  and  fast,  and  the  excitement 
grew  as  the  sums  increased.  The  climax  was  to 
be  the  reports  of  the  two  leaders  themselves,  and 
here  Lucindy  had  shown  her  shrewdness.  Maria 
Ann's  side  had  begun  to  report  first,  and  so  their 
leader  was  compelled  to  state  her  amount  first. 
There  was  a  certain  little  reserve  fund  in  the 
pocket  of  her  opponent  with  which  young  Mrs. 
Worthington  was  somewhat  acquainted,  and  it 
was  to  be  used  in  case  Maria  Ann  should  excel 
her.  Maria  Ann  made  her  report,  reading  from 
her  book: 

"  'Codin'  to  de  returns  made  by  my  pa'ty, 
which  you  hev  all  hyeahed,  they  hev  collected 
269 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

one  hun'erd  an'  eight  dollahs;  addin'  to  that 
what  I  hev  collected  by  myse'f,  fifty-two  dollahs, 
I  returns  to  de  chu'ch  one  hun'erd  an'  sixty  dol 
lahs." 

Down  in  her  lap  Lucindy  did  some  quick,  sur 
reptitious  writing.  Then  she  stood  up. 

1  'Co'din'  to  de  returns  which  my  pa'ty  hev 
made,  an'  which  you  hev  all  hyeahed,  they  hev 
collected  one  hun'erd  an'  two  dollahs,  an'  I,  by 
my  own  individual  effort" — she  laid  wonderful 
emphasis  upon  the  last  two  words,  "bring  in  sixty 
dollahs,  mekin'  the  total  one  hun'erd  and  sixty- 
two  dollahs,  which  I  submit  to  de  chu'ch." 

There  was  a  burst  of  applause  from  Lucindy's 
partisans,  but  Maria  Ann  was  on  her  feet : 

"I  forgot,"  she  said,  ude  last  donation  I  re 
ceived.  Mrs.  Jedge  Haines  was  kin'  enough  to 
give  me  a  check  fu'  ten  dollahs,  which  I  didn't 
add  in  at  fust,  an'  it  brings  my  collection  up  to 
one  hun'erd  an'  seventy  dollahs." 

The  volume  of  applause  increased  at  Maria 
Ann's  statement,  but  it  wavered  into  silence  as 
Lucindy  arose.  She  smiled  down  upon  Maria 
Ann. 

"I'm  mighty  thankful  to  de  sister,"  she  said, 
"fu'  mindin'  me  o'  some'p'n  I  mos'  nigh  fu'got. 
270 


The  Defection  of  Maria  Ann  Gibbs 

Mis'  Cal'ine  Worthington  desired  to  put  her 
name  down  on  my  book  fu'  twenty  dollahs, 
which  brings  my  collection  to  one  hun'erd  an' 
eighty  dollahs." 

Mrs.  Worthington  looked  across  at  Mrs. 
Haines  and  smiled.  That  lady  raised  her  chin. 
An  ashen  hue  came  into  Maria  Ann  Gibbs'  face. 

With  great  acclamation  the  watch  was 
awarded  to  Lucindy  Woodyard,  and  in  congrat 
ulating  her  the  Rev.  Eleazar  Jackson  held  her 
hand  perhaps  a  little  longer  than  usual.  Mrs. 
Worthington  was  standing  near  at  the  time. 

"If  I  had  known  it  meant  this,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "I  wouldn't  have  given  her  that  twenty 
dollars."  The  lady  saw  that  she  was  likely  to 
lose  a  good  servant.  When  the  meeting  was  out 
the  preacher  walked  home  with  Lucindy. 

On  the  following  Thursday  night  the  Afro- 
American  Sons  and  Daughters  of  Hagar  gave  a 
dance  at  their  hall  on  Main  Street.  Maria  Ann 
Gibbs,  the  shining  light  of  Bethel  Church,  went, 
and  she  danced.  Bethel  heard  and  mourned. 

On  the  next  Sunday  she  went  to  church.  She 
walked  in  with  Mose  Jackson,  who  was  known 
to  be  a  sinner,  and  she  sat  with  him  near  the 
door,  in  the  seat  of  the  sinners. 

271 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

The  Rev.  Eleazar  Jackson  went  past 
Lucindy's  house  and  they  walked  to  church  to 
gether.  Lucindy  had  increased  her  stock  of 
jewelry,  not  only  by  the  watch,  but  by  a  bright 
gold  ring  which  she  wore  on  the  third  finger  of 
her  left  hand.  But  if  Maria  Ann  cared,  she  did 
not  show  it.  She  had  found  in  the  tents  of  the 
wicked  what  she  could  not  get  in  the  temple  of 
the  Lord. 


272 


A  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS. 

It  is  a  very  difficult  thing  at  any  time  and  in 
any  place  to  be  the  acknowledged  arbiter  of  so 
cial  affairs.  But  to  hold  this  position  in  "Little 
Africa"  demanded  the  maximum  of  independ 
ence,  discretion  and  bravery.  I  say  bravery,  be 
cause  the  civilization  of  "Little  Africa"  had  not 
arrived  at  that  edifying  point  where  it  took  dis 
approval  gracefully  and  veiled  its  feelings.  It 
was  crude  and  primitive,  and  apt  to  resent  ad 
verse  comment  by  an  appeal  to  force,  not  of  the 
persuasive  but  of  the  vindictive  kind. 

It  had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  Mr.  Samuel  Hatfield 
to  occupy  this  delicate  position  of  social  judge, 
and  though  certain  advantages  and  privileges  ac 
crued  to  him  his  place  was  in  no  wise  a  sinecure. 
There  were  times  when  his  opinions  on  matters 
of  great  moment  had  been  openly  scoffed  at,  and 
once  it  had  even  happened  when  a  decision  of  his 
had  been  displeasing  that  fleetness  of  foot  alone 
had  saved  him  from  the  violence  of  partisans. 
Little  did  it  matter  to  the  denizens  of  "Little 
Africa"  that  others  might  be  put  upon  commit- 
273 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

tees  to  serve  with  Mr.  Hatfield  in  judging  the 
merits  of  waltzers  or  of  the  qualities  of  rival 
quartets.  He  was  the  one  who  invariably 
brought  in  the  report  and  awarded  the  prize,  and 
on  him  fell  the  burden  of  approval  or  disap 
proval. 

For  some  months  he  had  gone  on  gloriously 
unannoyed,  with  no  one  to  judge,  and  nothing  to 
pass  upon.  In  the  absence  of  these  duties,  Cupid 
had  stepped  in  and  with  one  shaft  laid  him  prone 
at  the  feet  of  Miss  Matilda  Jenkins.  Of  course, 
Mr.  Hatfield  did  cast  occasional  glances  at  the 
charms  of  Miss  Amarilla  Jones,  but  Cupid* 
grown  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the  world,  has 
somehow  learned  to  tip  his  arrows  with  gold,  and 
the  wound  of  these  is  always  fatal. 

Now,  the  charms  of  these  two  maidens  were 
equal,  their  brown  beauty  about  the  same,  but 
Matilda  Jenkins'  father  was  a  magnate  in  "Little 
Africa,"  and  so . 

On  a  night  in  autumn  the  devil  appeared  to 
certain  members  of  the  trustees'  board  of  Mt. 
Moriah  Church,  and  said  unto  them :  "You  need 
money  wherewith  to  run  this  church,"  and  they 
answered  and  said:  "Yes,  good  devil,  we  do." 

The  devil  spoke  again  and  said :  "Give  a  calico 
274 


A  Judgment  of  Paris 

festival  and  a  prize  to  the  woman  wearing  the 
prettiest  calico  dress."  And  much  elated,  they 
replied:  'Tea,  verily.'1 

Thereupon  the  devil,  his  work  being  done, 
vanished  with  a  crafty  smile,  leaving  them  to 
their  deliberations. 

Brother  Jenkins  and  Brother  Jones  were  both 
members  of  the  "Boa'd,"  and  when  the  contest 
was  decided  upon  they  looked  across  at  each 
other  with  defiance  shining  in  their  eyes,  because 
there  was  a  strong  rivalry  between  the  two  fami 
lies.  But  there  animosity  apparently  ended. 
Brother  Jenkins  dropped  his  eyes,  for  he  was  a 
little  old  man,  and  Brother  Jones  was  "husky," 
which  is  the  word  that  in  their  community  indi 
cated  rude  strength.  The  fight,  however,  for 
fight  it  was  going  to  be,  was  on. 

Within  the  next  few  days  the  shopkeepers  of 
the  town  sold  bolt  upon  bolt  of  calico.  The  buy 
ing  of  this  particular  line  of  goods  was  so  per 
sistent  that  one  shopkeeper,  who  was  a  strong- 
tongued,  rude  man,  laid  it  at  the  door  of  certain 
advocates  of  industrial  education  and  began  to 
denounce  any  doctrines  which  repressed  in  the 
negro  his  love  of  clothes  far  above  his  pocket, 
and  thereby  lowered  profits. 
275 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Hatfield  learned  what  was 
going  on  he  became  alarmed,  for  he  saw  more 
clearly  than  most  people  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
all  the  invention  of  the  devil.  His  good  angel 
prompted  him  to  flee  from  the  town  at  once,  but 
he  lingered  to  think  about  it,  and  while  he  lin 
gered  the  committee  came  upon  him.  They 
wanted  him  to  be  chairman  of  the  awarding  com 
mittee.  He  stammered  and  made  excuses. 

"You  see,  gent'mens,  hit's  des  disaway.  I 
'low  I  got  to  go  out  o'  town  fu'  my  boss  des  'bout 
de  time  dat  dis  hyeah's  comin'  off,  an'  I  wouldn' 
lak  to  p'omise  an'  den  disap'pint  you." 

"Dat's  all  right,  dat's  all  right,"  said  brother 
Jones,  the  spokesman;  "I  knows  yo'  boss,  an'  he 
teks  a  mighty  intrus'  in  Mt.  Moriah.  I'll  see 
him  an'  see  ef  he  can't  let  you  go  befo'  er  after 
de  en'tainment." 

The  sweat  broke  out  on  Mr.  Hatfield's  brow 
in  painful  beads. 

"Oh,  nevah  min',  nevah  min',"  he  exclaimed 
hastily;  "dis  hyeah's  private  business,  an'  I 
wouldn'  lak  him  to  know  dat  I  done  spoke  'bout 
it." 

"But  we  got  to  have  you,  Mr.  Hatfield.    You 
276 


A  Judgment  of  Paris 

sholy  mus'  speak  to  yo'  boss.  Ef  you  don't,  I'll 
have  to." 

"I  speak  to  him,  den,  I  speak  to  him.  I  see 
what  he  say." 

"Den  I  reckon  we  kin  count  on  yo'  suhvices?" 

"I  reckon  you  kin,"  said  the  victim. 

As  the  committee  went  its  way,  Hatfield  was 
sure  that  he  heard  a  diabolical  chuckle  and  smelt 
sulphur. 

The  days  that  had  dragged  flew  by  and  the 
poor  social  arbiter  looked  upon  the  nearing  fes 
tivity  as  upon  the  approach  of  doom.  With  the 
clear  perception  of  a  man  who  knows  his  world, 
Mr.  Hatfield  already  saw  that  all  women  in  the 
contest  besides  Matilda  Jenkins  and  Amarilla 
Jones  were  but  figureheads,  accessories  only  to 
the  real  fight  between  the  rival  belles.  So,  as  an 
earnest  of  his  intention  to  be  impartial,  he  ceased 
for  the  time  his  attentions  to  Matilda  Jenkins. 
This  lady,  though,  was  also  wise  in  her  day  and 
generation.  She  offered  no  protest  at  the  appa 
rent  defection  of  her  lover.  Indeed,  when  her 
father  squeaked  his  disapproval  of  Hatfield's  ac 
tion,  she  was  quick  to  come  to  his  defense. 

UI  reckon  Mr.  Hatfield  knows  what  he's 
about,"  she  said  loyally.  "You  know  how  de 
277 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

people  talks  erroun'  hyeah.  Den,  ef  he  go  an' 
gi'  me  de  prize,  dey  des  boun'  to  say  dat  it  ain't 
'cause  I  winned  it,  but  'cause  he  keepin'  comp'ny 
wid  me,  an'  ain't  gwine  to  shame  his  own  lady." 

"Uh,  huh,"  said  the  old  man;  "dat  hadn't 
crost  my  min'  befo'." 

In  the  meantime  a  similar  council  was  taking 
place  between  Miss  Amarilla  Jones  and  her 
father. 

"I  been  noticin',"  said  the  paternal  Jones  one 
day,  udat  Sam  Hatfield  don'  seem  to  be  a-gwine 
wid  Matildy  Jenkins  so  much." 

Amarilla  modestly  ducked — yes,  that's  the 
word — she  ducked  her  head,  but  she  smiled  as 
she  replied:  "Mistah  Hatfiel'  been  cas'in' 
sheep's-eyes  at  me  fu'  a  long  while  now." 

"Well,  what  good  do  dat  do,  less'n  he  up  an' 
say  some'p'n?" 

"Nevah  you  min',  pap;  I  'lows  I  un'erstan' 
young  men  bettah  dan  you  do.  Ef  he  don' 
mean  nuffin,  how  come  he  done  give  up  Matildy 
Jenkins  des  at  dis  junction?" 

"Hit's  all  mighty  quare  to  me." 

"Don'  you  see  he  got  to  jedge  de  contes',  an' 
he  cain't  go  ag'in  his  own  lady,  so  he  gin  huh  up  ? 
278 


The  Way  of  a  Woman 

Now,  ef  he  gi'  me  de  prize,  he  feel  puffectly  free 
to  ax  me  to  ma'y  him." 

"Whew-ee!"  whistled  the  elder,  entirely  over 
come  with  admiration  at  his  daughter's  sagacity; 
"you  sholy  has  got  a  quick  head  on  dem  shoul 
ders  o'yo'n!" 

At  the  time  appointed  the  members  and  friends 
of  Mt.  Moriah  assembled  for  the  calico  social. 
The  church  was  crowded  with  a  curiously- 
gowned  throng  of  all  conditions  and  colors,  who 
tittered  and  chatted  with  repressed  excitement. 
There  was  every  conceivable  kind  of  dress  there 
among  the  contestants,  from  belted  Mother  Hub- 
bards  to  their  aristocratic  foster-sisters,  Empire 
gowns.  There  was  calico  in  every  design,  from 
polka-dot  to  Dolly  Vardens — and  there  was— 
anxiety. 

Promptly  at  ten  o'clock  the  judges,  three  pom 
pous  individuals  with  white  ribbons  in  their  but 
tonholes,  strode  in  and  took  their  seats  just  be 
neath  the  pulpit.  Then  there  was  a  short  address 
by  the  pastor,  who,  being  a  wily  man  and  unwill 
ing  to  put  his  salry  in  jeopardy,  assured  his  hear 
ers  that  if  he  were  one  of  the  judges  he  would 
"jest  throw  up  his  job  an'  give  a  prize  to  every 
lady  in  the  room."  This  brought  forth  a  great 
279 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

laugh  and  somewhat  relieved  the  nervous  tension, 
but  it  did  not  make  the  real  judges  feel  any  better 
over  their  difficult  task.  Indeed,  it  quite  pros 
trated  their  chairman,  who,  in  spite  of  his  pom 
pous  entrance,  sat  huddled  up  in  his  chair,  the 
sweat  breaking  out  of  every  pore  and  the  look 
of  final  despair  in  his  eyes. 

When  the  pastor  was  through  with  his  drivel 
ing  the  organist  took  her  place  at  the  wheezy  lit 
tle  cabinet  organ  and  struck  up  a  decorous-sound 
ing  tune  to  which  the  contestants  marched  round 
and  round  the  room  before  the  eyes  of  the  be 
wildered  arbiters.  They  stepped  jauntily  off, 
marking  the  time  perfectly  to  show  off  their  airs 
and  graces  as  well  as  their  clothing.  It  was  like 
nothing  so  much  as  a  sort  of  religious  cake-walk. 
And  the  three  victims  of  their  own  popularity 
presided  over  the  scene  with  a  solemnity  that  was 
not  all  dignity  nor  yet  pride  of  place.  Five 
times  the  contestants  marched  around  and  then, 
at  a  signal,  they  halted  and  ranged  themselves 
in  a  more  or  less  straight  line  before  the  judges. 

After  careful  inspection,  somewhat  like  that 
of  prize  cattle  at  a  fair,  they  were  dismissed,  and 
three  very  nervous  and  perturbed  gentlemen  re 
tired  to  consult. 

280 


A  Judgment  of  Paris 

Now,  these  people  were  lovers  of  music,  and 
at  the  very  promise  that  they  were  to  hear  their 
favorite  singer,  Miss  Otilla  Bell,  they  usually 
became  enthusiastic.  But  to-nignt  Miss  Bell 
came  out  without  a  greeting,  and  sang  her  best 
without  attention.  There  were  other  things  occu 
pying  the  minds  of  the  audience.  The  vocalist 
was  barely  done  warbling  disappointedly  when  a 
burst  of  applause  brought  a  smile  to  her  face. 
But  a  glance  in  the  direction  toward  which  every 
one  was  looking  showed  her  that  the  acclamation 
was  not  for  her,  but  for  the  returning  judges. 

The  men  took  their  seats  until  the  handclap- 
ping  ceased,  and  then  Mr.  Hatfield,  in  sorrowful 
case,  arose  to  read  the  committee's  report. 

"We,  de  committee—  He  paused  and 

looked  at  the  breathless  auditors,  then  went  on : 
"We  de  committee ;  I  wish  to  impress  dat  on  you. 
Dis  ain't  de  decision  of  one  man,  but  of  a  com 
mittee,  an'  one  of  us  ain't  no  mo'  'sponsible  den 
de  otah.  We,  de  committee,  aftah  carefully 
ezaminin'  de  costooms  of  de  ladies  hyeah  as 
sembled  ez  contestants  in  dis  annual  calico  so 
cial"  (It  was  not  annual,  but  then  it  sounded 
well),  "do  fin'"  (Here  he  cleared  his  throat 
again,  and  repeated  himself)—  "do  fin'  dat  de 
281 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

mos'  strikin'  costoom  was  wo'  by  Miss  Matilda 
Jenkins,  who  is  daihfo'  entitled  to  de  prize." 

A  little  patter  of  applause  came  from  the  Jen 
kins  partisans. 

"Will  Miss  Jenkins  please  come  forward?" 

Matilda  sidled  to  the  front  with  well-simu 
lated  modesty. 

"Miss  Jenkins,  we,  de  committee — I  repeat, 
we,  de  committee,  teks  great  pleasure  in  pus- 
sentin'  you  wid  de  prize  fu'  yo'  handsome  cos 
toom.  It  is  dis  beautiful  photygraph  a'bum. 
May  you  have  nuffin'  but  de  faces  of  frien's  in  it 
fu'  de  reason  dat  you  has  no  inimies." 

He  bowed.  She  bowed.  There  was  again  the 
patter  of  perfunctory  applause,  and  for  that 
night,  at  least,  the  incident  was  closed. 

Fear  has  second  sight,  and,  albeit  he  trembled 
in  his  shoes,  Mr.  Hatfield  was  in  nowise  aston 
ished  when  old  man  Jones  called  on  him  next 
morning  at  the  hotel  where  he  was  employed. 

"W'y,  w'y,  how  do,  Mistah  Jones?    How  do ? 

"Howdy?"  growled  the  old  man,  and  went 
on  without  pause:  "Me  an'  'Rilla  wants  to  see 
you  to-night." 

"W'y,  w'y,  Mistah  Jones,"  began  Hatfield, 
282 


A  Judgment  of  Paris 

"I — I—  — "  But  the  other  cut  him  short,  his 
brow  gathering. 

"Me  an'  'Rilla  wants  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

The  scared  waiter  paused.  What  should  he 
do?  He  must  decide  quickly,  for  the  man  be 
fore  him  looked  dangerous.  There  must  be  no 
trouble  there,  because  it  would  mean  the  loss  of 
his  place,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  a  head  waiter 
was  dear  to  him.  Better  promise  to  go  and  have 
it  out  where  the  presence  of  Amarilla  might  miti 
gate  his  punishment.  So  he  stammered  forth : 
u'Oh,  well,  co'se,  ef  you  an'  Miss  Amarilla  wants 
me,  w'y,  I'll  come." 

"All  right;"  and  the  irate  Jones  turned  away. 

With  trembling  knees  he  knocked  at  the  Jones 
door  that  night.  The  old  man  himself  opened 
to  him  and  received  him  alone  in  the  front  room. 
This  was  threatening. 

"I  reckon  you  reelizes,  Mistah  Hatfiel',"  said 
Jones  when  they  had  seated  themselves  and  dis 
posed  of  the  weather,  "you  reelizes  dat  I  had 
some'p'n  putic'lah  to  say  er  I  wouldn'  V  had  you 
come  hyeah?" 

"I  knows  you's  a  man  o'  bus'ness,  Mistah 
Jones." 

"I  is,  suh;  so  let's  come  to  bus'ness.  You 
283 


/;/  Old  Plantation  Days 

t'ought  las'  night  dat  Tildy  Jenkins  was  bettah 
dressed  den  my  daughter  ?" 

Hatfield  glanced  at  the  glowering  face  and 
stammered:  "Well,  of  co'se,  you  know,  Mistah 
Jones,  I  wasn'  de  whole  committee." 

"Don't  you  try  to  beat  erbout  de  bush  wid 
me — answeh  my  question?"  cried  the  father  an 
grily. 

"I  don't  des  see  how  I  kin  answeh.  You 
hyeahed  de  decision." 

"Yes,  I  hyeahed  it,  an'  I  want  to  know  des 
what  you  t'ought." 

"Dey  was  two  othah  men  'long  wid  me." 

Jones  walked  over  and  stood  towering  before 
his  trembling  victim.  "I's  gwine  to  ax  you  des 
once  mo',  did  you  t'ink  Matildy's  dress  any  put 
tier  den  my 'Rilla's?" 

"No,  no — suh,"  chattered  the  chairman  of  the 
committee. 

"Den,"  thundered  Amarilla's  father — "den 
you  own  up  dat  you  showed  favoh  to  one  side?" 

"No,  no — I  didn'  sho'  no  favoh — but — but 
de  majo'ity,  hit  rules." 

"Majo'ity,  majo'ity !  W'y,  w'en  Fs  in  de  Odd 
Fellows'  meetin's,  ef  Fs  one  ag'in  fifty,  I  brings 
in  a  mino'ity  repo't." 


•'    'l's    CWIXK    TO    AX    YOU    DKS    OXCK    -MO  '    ' 


A  Judgment  of  Paris 

"But  I  don't  reckon  dat  'ud  'a'  been  fittin'." 

"Fittin',  fittin' !  Don't  you  daih  to  set  thaih 
an'  talk  to  me  erbout  fittin',  you  nasty  little  rap 
scallion,  you.  No,  suh!  You's  shamed  my 
house,  you's  insulted  my  gal,  an' " 

"Oh,  no,  Mistah  Jones,  no.  W'y,  d'ain't  no 
body  I  thinks  mo'  of  den  I  does  of  Miss  Ama- 
rilla." 

"Dey  hain't,  eh?  Well,  dey's  only  one  way 
to  prove  it,"  said  Mr.  Jones,  sententiously;  and 
then  he  called :  "'Rilla,  come  hyeah.  I'll  be  right 
outside  de  do',"  he  said,  "an'  we'll  know  putty 
soon  how  to  treat  you." 

He  went  out  and  the  vivacious  'Rilla  entered. 

"Good-evenin',"  she  said. 

"Good-evenin,"  said  Hatfield  in  agony.  "Oh, 
Miss  'Rilla,  Miss  'Rilla,"  he  cried,  "I  hope  you 
don't  think  I  meant  any  kin'  o'  disrespect  to 
you  ?"  She  hung  her  head. 

"You  know  dey  ain't  nobody  dat  I  think  any 
mo'  of  den  I  do  of  you."  In  his  fervor  he  took 
her  hand. 

"This  is  so  sudden,"  she  said,  "but  I  thought  I 
unnerstood  you  all  along.     Ef  you  really  does 
think  so  much  o'  me,  I  reckon  I  has  to  tek  you 
285 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

even  ef  you  was  sich  a  naughty  boy  las'  night," 
and  she  looked  at  him  lovingly. 

He  stood  with  staring  eyes,  dumbfounded. 
She  had  taken  his  apology  for  a  proposal  of  mar 
riage,  and  he — he  dared  not  correct  her.  He 
looked  toward  the  door  meditating  flight,  but  re 
membered  what  was  just  behind  it. 

"Dear  Miss  Amarilla,"  he  said,  "dis  is  mo' 
den  I  expected." 

The  ponderous  Mr.  Jones  did  not  bother  them 
again  that  evening.  He  must  have  heard  all, 

Matilda  Jenkins  first  heard  the  news  upon  the 
street.  She  came  home  directly  and  before  tak 
ing  off  her  hat  picked  up  the  red  plush  album  and 
hurled  it  fiercely  out  into  the  yard,  where  it  barely 
missed  her  father's  head. 

"What's  dat?"  he  cried. 

"Dat?"  she  shrieked.  "Dat  is  de  price  o' 
Mistah  HatfielV 


286 


SILENT  SAM'EL. 

Miss  Angelina  Brown  was  a  young  woman  of 
many  charms.  Every  one  in  Little  Africa  con 
ceded  that.  No  one  who  had  seen  her  dash 
gracefully  up  the  aisle  of  Mount  Moriah  Church 
to  the  collection-table  with  tossing  head  and 
rustling  skirts;  no  one  who  had  seen  her  move 
dreamily  through  the  mazy  dance  at  the  hod- 
carriers'  picnics  could  fail  to  admit  this  much. 
She  was  a  tall,  fine-looking  girl,  with  a  carriage 
that  indicated  that  she  knew  her  own  worth,  as 
she  did. 

What  added  to  the  glamour  that  hung  about 
the  name  of  the  brown  damsel  was  that  she  was 
the  only  daughter  of  a  very  solid  citizen — a  man 
who  was  known  to  have  both  "propity"  and 
money.  There  was  no  disputing  the  solidity  of 
the  paternal  Brown,  as  there  was  no  question  of 
his  utter  simplicity  and  unaffectedness.  He  had 
imparted  to  Angelina  a  deal  of  his  own  good 
sense,  and  though  she  did  not  flaunt  it,  she  did 
not,  like  many  others  born  hitherside  the  war, 
disdain  the  fact  that  her  father  had  learned  on 
287 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

his  master's  plantation  the  trade  that  supported 
them. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  is  easy  to  believe 
that  the  young  woman  had  many  suitors.  There 
were  many  proper  and  stylish  young  men  in  the 
community  who  were  willing  to  take  the  entranc 
ing  girl  for  herself  in  spite  of  the  incubus  of  her 
riches.  Indeed,  there  were  frequent  offers  of 
such  noble  sacrifices ;  but  Angelina  was  a  shrewd 
high  priestess,  and  she  found  it  better  to  keep 
her  victims  in  her  train  than  to  immolate  them 
on  the  altar  of  matrimony.  So  it  happened  that 
there  were  few  evenings  when  a  light  was  not 
visible  in  the  parlor  of  old  Isaac  Brown's  house, 
and  one  or  another  of  the  young  men  of  Little 
Africa  did  not  sit  there  with  Angelina. 

It  was  of  a  piece  with  the  usual  good  sense 
that  governed  this  house  that  slow-going,  unpre 
tentious  Samuel  Spencer — "Silent  Sam'el,"  they 
called  him — made  one  of  these  evening  sitters. 
Samuel  was  a  steady-going,  good-humored  fel 
low,  and  a  workman  under  the  elder  Brown. 
This  may  have  accounted  for  Angelina's  gra- 
ciousness  to  him.  For  even  when  he  was  in  her 
company  he  had  never  a  word  to  say  for  himself, 
but  sat,  looked  at  the  lamp,  twirled  his  hat,  and 


Silent  Sam' el 

smiled.  This  was  certainly  not  very  entertaining 
for  the  girl,  but  then,  her  father  had  a  high 
opinion  of  Samuel's  ability.  So  she  would  make 
conversation,  and  endure  his  smiles,  until  old 
Isaac  would  call  gruffly  to  him  from  the  kitchen, 
and  he  would  rise  silently  and  go.  Then  An 
gelina  was  free  to  entertain  whom  she  pleased 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  for  the  two  men  did 
not  part  until  near  midnight. 

Once  with  his  employer,  Samuel  would  venture 
a  remark  now  and  then  over  the  something  like 
oily  looking  tea  which  they  stirred  round  and 
round  in  their  glasses.  But  usually  he  listened 
while  the  old  man  expounded  his  new  plans  and 
ideas,  and  every  once  in  a  while  would  shake  his 
head  in  appreciation,  or  pat  his  knee  in  pure 
enjoyment.  This  happened  every  Wednesday, 
for  that  was  Samuel's  particular  evening.  Isaac 
Brown  looked  forward  to  it  with  more  pleasure 
than  Angelina.  For  as  he  said,  when  Samuel's 
silence  was  referred  to,  "You  needn't  say  nothin' 
to  me  'bout  Sam'el  Spencer.  I  reckon  he  talks 
enough  fu'  me;  and  'sides  dat,  I's  allus  noticed 
dat  hit  took  a  might'  sma't  man  to  know  how  to 
keep  his  mouth  shet.  Hit's  a  heap  easier  to 
talk." 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

But  there  were  others  who  were  not  so  favor 
ably  disposed  toward  old  man  Brown's  "pet," 
as  they  called  him.  Jim  White,  who  was  head 
waiter  at  the  big  hotel,  and  consequently  widely 
conversant  with  men  and  things,  said:  "Huh, 
oP  Sam  go  down  to  ol'  man  Brown's,  an'  set  up 
there  fur  an  hour  an'  a  half  'side  Miss  Angelina, 
her  talkin'  an'  laughin'  an'  him  lookin'  like  a 
bump  on  a  log."  And  this  same  joke,  though 
often  repeated,  never  failed  to  elicit  a  shout  of 
laughter  from  the  waiters  assembled  about  their 
leader,  and  anxious  to  laugh  at  anything  the 
autocrat  of  the  dining-room  might  condescend  to 
say.  Others  went  so  far  as  to  twit  Samuel  him 
self,  but  he  bore  all  of  this  good-naturedly,  and 
without  attempting  to  change  his  manner,  until 
one  memorable  night. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  a  great  rallying 
festival  at  Mount  Moriah  Church,  and  a  large 
part  of  Little  Africa  was  gathered  within  the 
church  walls,  partaking  of  ice  cream,  oyster  stews 
and  coffee.  As  Angelina  was  one  of  those  who 
had  volunteered  to  help  serve  the  company  she 
had  denied  herself  the  pleasure  of  a  "gentleman 
escort"  and  had  gone  early  with  her  father  and 
mother. 

290 


Silent  Sam' el 

Jim  White  and  Samuel  Spencer  were  not  the 
only  ones  who  followed  her  about  that  evening 
with  amorous  glances.  Young  men  bought 
oyster  stews  if  she  could  serve  them  when  they 
had  eaten  far  beyond  their  normal  capacities. 
Old  men  with  just  teeth  enough  left  to  ache  gave 
themselves  neuralgia  with  undesired  ice  cream. 

Jim  White  had  about  him  a  crowd  that  he 
treated  lavishly  every  time  he  could  get  Ange 
lina's  eye;  and  Samuel  himself  had  already  ac 
complished  six  oyster  stews  and  wras  looking  help 
lessly  at  his  seventh. 

There  is  no  telling  what  might  have  happened 
had  not  the  refreshments  given  out  and  the 
festival  been  forced  to  close.  The  young  men 
and  young  women  came  together  in  twos  and 
took  their  way  home.  But  while  Angelina  stood 
counting  her  takings  there  were  no  less  than  six 
anxious  beaus  who  stood  waiting  her  pleasure. 

Of  these  Sam  was  the  nearest,  and  those  who 
looked  on  were  about  to  conclude  that  even  slow 
as  he  was  he  would  reach  her  this  time  first  and 
gain  permission  to  take  her  home,  when  just  as 
a  slight  sinking  of  her  head  showed  that  her 
counting  was  done,  Jim  White  stepped  up  and, 
with  a  bow,  asked  for  "the  pleasure."  She 
291 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

looked  around  for  a  moment  and  her  eye  fell  on 
her  silent  admirer.  She  hesitated,  and  then, 
turning,  bowed  to  White. 

The  smile  died  on  Sam's  face,  and  he  stood 
watching  them  blankly.  Not  until  her  escort 
had  found  her  wraps  and  had  put  her  in  them 
and  she  had  said  a  light  good-night  to  those  who 
waited  did  Sam  awake  from  his  stupor. 

There  were  some  titters  as  he  passed  out,  and 
a  few  remarks  such  as,  "Uh  huh,  Sam,  you  too 
slow  fu'  Jim.  You  got  to  move  an'  talk  faster," 
or  "You  sholy  was  cut  out  dat  time." 

But  he  went  on  his  way,  though  in  spite  of  the 
smile  that  came  back  to  his  lips  there  was  a 
determined  look  in  his  eyes.  On  the  church 
steps  he  paused  and  looked  after  the  retreating 
forms  of  Angelina  and  his  rival,  then  with  a 
short  but  not  angry  "Huh!"  he  went  his  way 
home. 

There  was  in  his  mind  the  consciousness  of 
something  wrong,  and  that  something  was 
wrong,  his  far  from  dull  wits  told  him,  neither 
with  Jim  nor  Angelina,  but  himself.  He  had  a 
perfect  right  to  speak  to  her  first  if  he  could,  and 
she  had  a  right  to  accept  his  company.  He  was 
bleakly  just  to  every  one  concerned,  and  yet  he 

202 


Silent  Sam'el 

knew  by  rights  he  should  have  taken  Angelina 
home,  and  then  the  thought  came  to  him  that 
he  could  have  said  nothing  to  her  even  had  he 
taken  her  home.  Jim  could  talk;  he  couldn't. 
The  knowledge  of  his  own  deficiencies  over 
whelmed  him,  and  he  went  to  bed  that  night  in 
no  happy  frame  of  mind. 

For  a  long  while  he  did  not  sleep,  but  lay 
thinking  about  Angelina.  It  was  nearly  morn 
ing  when  he  got  suddenly  out  of  bed  and  began 
dancing  a  breakdown  in  his  bare  feet,  whisper 
ing  to  himself,  "By  gum,  that's  it!" 

The  landlady  knocked  on  the  wall  to  know 
what  was  the  matter.  He  replied  that  he  had 
been  attacked  with  cramp  in  his  feet,  but  was 
better  now,  and  so  subsided. 

From  now  on  a  change  took  place  in  Samuel's 
manner  of  proceeding.  The  first  thing  that 
marked  this  change  was  his  unexpected  appear 
ance  in  the  Brown  parlor  on  the  next  Monday. 
Angelina  was  entertaining  another  caller,  but  she 
received  him  pleasantly  and,  so  far  as  an  occa 
sional  reference  to  him  would  suffice,  drew  him 
into  the  conversation.  However,  he  did  not  stay 
long,  and  so  his  hostess  concluded  that  he  had 
just  been  passing  and  had  casually  dropped  in. 
293 


In   Old  Plantation  Days 

What  was  her  surprise  when  promptly  at  the 
same  hour  on  the  next  night  Samuel  again  came 
smiling  in  and  settled  himself  to  listen  to  the 
talk  of  that  night's  caller.  Angelina  was  as 
tounded.  What  did  he  mean?  Had  he  begun 
to  spy  upon  her  and  her  company.  Wednesday 
was  his  acknowledged  night,  and  of  course  he 
had  a  right  to  come,  but  when  he  turned  up  on 
Thursday  she  openly  tossed  her  head  and  treated 
him  with  marked  coldness.  The  young  man  who 
had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  out  the  hours  on 
Thursday  brought  her  a  bunch  of  flowers.  Sam 
uel  was  evidently  taking  lessons,  for  on  Friday 
night  he  appeared  with  a  wondrous  bouquet. 

For  one  whole  week,  including  Sunday,  he 
was  by  the  side  of  his  divinity  some  part  of 
every  evening.  The  other  young  men  were  pro 
voked.  Angelina  was  annoyed,  but  less  seriously 
than  she  might  have  been  when  she  found  that 
Samuel  had  the  consideration  never  to  stay  long. 
The  most  joyful  one  of  all  concerned  was  old 
Isaac  Brown  himself. 

"When  Sam'el  sets  out  a  cou'tin'  he  does  it  jes' 
like  he  does  evahthing  else.  Huh,  de  way  he  sot 
his  cap  fu'  Angie  is  a  caution." 

But  the  truth  of  it  was,  Samuel  Spencer  was 
294 


Silent  Sam' el 

deeper  than  those  who  knew  him  could  fathom. 
His  week's  visit  to  Angelina  had  not  been  with 
out  reason  or  result,  and  its  object  might  have 
been  discovered  as  he  mumbled  to  himself  on  the 
last  night  of  his  constant  attendance :  "Well,  I've 
heard  'em  all  talk,  but  I  reckon  that  little  Scott 
fellow  that  comes  on  Friday  night's  about  the 
slickest  of  the  lot.  He'll  have  to  do  my  talkin' 
fur  me."  He  chuckled  a  little,  and  shook  his 
head  solemnly,  "Ef  somebody  else  got  to  speak 
fur  me,"  he  added,  "I  do'  want  nothin'  but  the 
best  talent." 

The  next  week  it  appeared  that  Samuel's  sud 
den  passion  must  have  burned  itself  out  as  sud 
denly  as  it  had  appeared,  for  not  even  Wednes 
day  night  saw  his  face  in  the  Brown  parlor. 
Then  was  Angelina  uneasy,  for  she  thought  she 
had  offended  him;  and  she  didn't  want  to  do 
that,  for  he  was  her  father's  friend,  anyway, 
even  if  he  was  nothing  to  her,  and  her  father's — 
oh,  well,  her  father's  friend  deserved  respect.  So 
she  instructed  the  elder  Brown  to  inquire  the 
reason  for  the  young  man's  sudden  defection,  and 
she  was  greatly  soothed,  even  though  she  did  not 
care  for  him,  when  her  parent  brought  back  the 
295 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 
message  that  "Sam'el  was  all  right,  an'  'ud  be 


'rounV 


It  was  not  until  Friday  night  that  he  came 
and,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  he  went  di 
rectly  back  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  spent  the 
hours  with  the  old  man.  Angelina  was  piqued, 
and  she  tossed  her  head  as  he  came  in  just  as  Mr. 
Scott  was  leaving.  He  sat  down  and  smiled  at 
her  for  a  little  while,  and  then  he  said  abruptly : 

"I  mean  all  he  said." 

She  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"I  mean  all  he  said,"  he  repeated,  and  soon 
after  bade  her  good-night. 

Friday  night  after  Friday  night  he  came  at 
one  hour  or  another,  and  after  Scott  had  poured 
out  his  heart  to  Angelina  Samuel  merely  whis 
pered  in  her  ear  that  he  meant  all  that.  Now 
this  was  very  shrewd  of  Samuel,  for  Mr.  Scott 
was  a  very  eloquent  and  fluent  talker,  and  Ange 
lina  thought  that  if  Samuel  meant  all  the  other 
said  he  must  mean  a  good  deal. 

One  night,  with  burning  words,  Scott  asked 
the  momentous  question.  Samuel  was  in  the 
kitchen  with  Isaac  Brown  at  the  time  his  rival 
was  making  his  impassioned  plea.  Angelina 
bade  her  wooer  to  wait  until  she  had  time  to 
296 


Silent  Sam'el 

and  when  he  had  gone  she  awaited  the  coming 
of  Samuel. 

He  came  in  smiling,  as  usual. 

"I  mean  all  he  said,"  he  asserted. 

"How  do  you  know,  you  do  ?  You  do'  know 
what  he  said,"  retorted  Angelina. 

"I  mean  all  he  said,"  repeated  Sam. 

"La,  Mr.  Spencer,  you  are  the  beatenes'  man! 
If  you  mean  all  he  said,  why  don't  you  say  it 
yo'se'f?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Sam  simply. 

"Well,  Mr.  Scott  surely  has  said  enough  to 
night." 

"I  mean  all  he  said." 

"I'm  mighty  'fraid  you'll  want  to  back  out 
when  you  hear  it." 

"I  mean  all  he  said,"  and  Sam  laid  an  em 
phasis  on  the  "all."  He  was  slowly  working  his 
way  toward  Angelina.  His  wits  began  to  tell 
him  what  Scott  had  said. 

"You  ain't  never  ast  me  what  he  said." 

"What?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you;  don't  you  know?" 

By  this  time  he  had  reached  her  and  put  his 
arm  around  her  trim  waist. 

"I  mean  all  he  said." 

297 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

"Well,  then,  I  says  yes  to  you  fur  what  you 
means,  even  if  you  won't  say  it,"  and  Angelina 
ducked  her  head  on  his  breast. 

Sam's  eyes  shone,  and  it  was  a  good  deal  later 
before  he  left  that  night.  As  he  stood  at  the 
gate  he  suddenly  broke  his  silence  and  said,  "I 
thought  Scott  was  nevah  goin'  to  git  to  the  ques 
tion." 


298 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN. 

Any  man  who  has  ever  wooed  in  earnest,  or 
thought  so,  knows  how  hard  it  is  to  have  his 
suit  repulsed  time  and  time  again.  However  the 
capricious  one  may  smile  at  times,  one  "no"  up 
sets  the  memory  of  many  days  of  smiles. 

The  structure  of  Gabe  Harris'  hopes  had 
fallen  so  often  that  he  had  begun  to  build  it  over 
again  listlessly  and  mechanically  enough,  until 
one  momentous  day,  when  it  seemed  fallen  for 
good. 

He  had  come  by,  as  usual,  upon  his  cart  that 
evening  after  work,  and  paused,  as  was  his  wont, 
for  a  chat  with  his  desired  one,  Anna  Maria 
Moore.  He  had  been  hard  at  work  all  day  haul 
ing  from  the  clay-pits,  and  so  was  not  a  thing  of 
beauty  as  to  clothes.  But  if  Anna  Maria  loved 
him — and  he  believed  she  did — love  was  blind, 
which  left  him  all  right  in  his  own  eyes  and  hers. 

Perhaps  he  was  right  even  thus  far,  and  all 
would  have  gone  well  had  not  the  plump,  brown 
beauty  of  the  girl  overcome  him  as  he  stood 
chatting  with  her. 

The  realization  of  her  charms,  of  her  desir- 
299 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

ableness,  swept  over  him  with  a  rush  of  emotion. 
Instinctively  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  They 
were  in  the  front  yard,  too.  "Wen — w'en 
you  gwine  ma'y  me,  honey?  Tell  me." 

Anna  Maria  froze  at  once.  She  grew  as  rigid 
as  the  seams  in  her  newly  starched  calico. 

"W'y — w'y,  what's  de  mattah,  Anna  Maria?" 
stammered  the  discomfited  Gabe. 

"  'Scuse  me,  Mistah  Ha'is,"  said  the  lady, 
with  dignity,  "but  I's  not  in  de  habit  ob  bein' 
spoke  to  in  dat  mannah." 

"W'y,  what's  I  done,  Anna  Maria?" 

"What's  you  done,  sah?  What's  you  done? 
W'y  you's  scandalized  me  'fo'  de  eyes  ob  de 
whole  neighbo'hood,"  and  the  calico  swished  it 
self  as  well  as  its  stiffness  would  allow  into  the 
house. 

Gabe  scratched  his  head.  "Well,  I'll  be  dad- 
burned!"  he  ejaculated. 

Just  then  Uncle  Ike,  Anna  Maria's  father, 
came  up.  He  was  Gabe's  friend  and  ally,  and 
the  young  fellow's  bewilderment  was  not  lost 
upon  him. 

"What's  de  mattah,  Brothah  Gabe?"  he  ques 
tioned. 

"W'y>  Unc'  Ike,  I  done  axed  Anna  Maria  to 
300 


The  Way  of  a  Woman 

ma'y,  an'  she  say  Fs  insulted  an'  scandalized  de 
neighbo'hood.  Huccome  dat?" 

"Tsch,  tsch,  tsch,  Brothah  Gabe;  you  sholy 
doesn't  knew  de  pherlosophy  ob  oomankin'." 

"I  reckon  I  ain't  up  on  dat,  Unc'  Ike;  seems  I 
ain'  had  de  spe'ence  dat  hab  fell  to  yo'  lot." 

The  present  was  Uncle  Ike's  fourth  matrimo 
nial  venture,  and  he  was  supposed  to  know  many 
things.  He  went  on:  "Now,  Brothah  Gabe,  in 
co'tin'  a  ooman,  less'n  she's  a  widdah  ooman, 
dey's  th'ee  t'ings  you  got  to  do ;  you  got  to  satisfy 
huh  soul,  you  got  to  chawm  huh  yeah,  an'  you 
got  to  please  huh  eye.  'Tain't  no  use  doin'  one 
ner  tothah  less'n  you  does  all — dat  is,  I  say,  per- 
vided  it  ain't  a  widdah  lady;  dey  bein'  easiah  to 
please  an'  mo'  unnerstannin'  laik.  Well,  you 
come  hyeah,  aftah  yo'  day's  wo'k,  an'  you  talk 
to  Anna  Maria.  She  know  you  been  a'wo'kin', 
an'll  mak'  a  good  pervider ;  dat  satisfy  huh  soul." 

uYes,  suh;  she  smile  w'en  I  was  a-talkin'  to 
huh,  an'  dat  what  mak  me  fu'git  myse'f." 

"Uh-huh,"  said  the  old  man,  wagging  his 
head  sagely  and  stroking  the  straggling  beard 
upon  his  chin,  "uh-huh,  dat  mean  dat  you  chawm 
huh  yeah ;  but  hoi'  on,  hoi'  on  dey's  one  mo'  t'ing. 
How  in  de  name  ob  common  sense  you  spec'  to 
301 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

please  huh  eye  a-comin'  hyeah  in  sich  togs  ez 
deze  ?  Ki  yi,  now  you  see." 

Again  Gabe  had  recourse  to  his  signal  of  per 
plexity,  and  woolly  head  and  grimy  nails  came 
together  in  a  half-hearted  scratch. 

"Unc'  Ike,  you  sholy  hab  opened  my  eyes," 
he  said,  as  he  went  slowly  out  to  his  cart. 

On  the  morrow  he  arrayed  himself  in  his  best, 
and  hitching  his  mare  to  a  buggy  not  yet  too  rick 
ety  to  awe  some  of  his  less  prosperous  neigh 
bors,  started  toward  the  home  of  his  inamorata. 
Old  Suke,  accustomed  to  nothing  lighter  than  her 
cart  on  workdays,  first  set  her  ears  doubtfully  at 
the  unaccustomed  vacation,  and  then,  seeming  to 
realize  that  it  was  really  a  vacation,  a  gala-day, 
she  tossed  her  head  and  stepped  out  bravely. 

In  the  heart  of  Gabe  Harris  a  similar  exulta 
tion  was  present.  What  now  would  check  him 
in  his  quest  of  the  fair  one  ?  He  had  fulfilled  all 
the  requirements  laicF  down  by  Uncle  Ike,  and 
Uncle  Ike  knew.  He  had  already  satisfied  her 
soul;  he  had  done  his  duty  as  to  "chawmin'  her 
yeah,"  now  he  went  forth  a  potential  conqueror 
for  the  last  great  feat — the  pleasing  of  her  eyes. 
Gone  were  the  marks  and  the  memory  of  the 
clay-pits,  gone  was  the  ashiness  of  dust  from  his 
302 


The  Way  of  a  Woman 

hardened  hands.  His  self-abashing  cap  was  re 
placed  by  an  agressive  "stiff  hat,"  while  his  black 
coat  and  waistcoat,  with  drab  trousers,  completed 
an  invincible  make-up. 

It  was  an  autumn  day,  the  year  was  sighing  to 
ward  its  close,  but  there  was  a  golden  touch  in 
the  haze  that  overhung  the  mean  streets  where 
he  passed,  and  somewhere  up  in  a  balsam  poplar 
a  bird  would  persist  in  singing,  and  something 
in  Gabe's  heart  kept  answering,  answering,  as  he 
alighted  and  hitched  Suke  before  Anna  Maria's 
gate. 

A  little  later  she  came  out  arrayed  in  all  her 
glory.  She  passed  through  the  gate  which  the 
smiling  Gabe  held  open  for  her,  and  stepped 
lightly  into  the  buggy.  Suke  turned  one  inquisi 
tive  glance  over  her  shoulder,  and  then,  winking 
slowly  to  herself,  consented  to  be  unhitched  and 
to  jog  leisurely  toward  the  country  roads.  What 
Gabe  said  to  Anna  Maria  and  what  Anna  Maria 
said  to  Gabe  on  that  drive  is  not  recorded.  But 
it  is  evident  that  the  lover  had  been  preparing 
his  lady  for  something  momentous,  for  upon  re 
turning  late  that  afternoon  he  paused  as  he 
helped  her  alight,  and  whispered  softly:  "I  got 
sompin'  mo'  to  say  to  you." 
303 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

As  they  entered  the  house,  the  smell  of  baking 
biscuits  and  of  frying  pork  assailed  their  nostrils. 
Aunt  Hannah  Moore  also  had  recognized  this  as 
a  gala-day,  and  was  putting  herself  out  to  lay 
such  a  feast  for  her  daughter's  suitor  as  he  should 
remember  for  many  a  day  to  come.  Gabe  sat 
down  in  the  spick-and-span  front  room. 

"Ma's  biscuits  certVy  does  smell  scan'lous," 
Anna  Maria  commented,  agreeably. 

Gabe's  mind  was  too  full  of  his  mission  to  heed 
the  remark.  The  momentous  second  had  arrived 
— the  second  that  held  the  fruition  of  all  his  am 
bitions,  all  his  dreams.  He  plumped  down  on 
his  knees  at  her  feet.  "Oh,  Anna  Maria,"  he 
cried,  "Anna  Maria,  ain't  you  gwine  hab  me 
now?" 

Anna  Maria  turned  on  him  a  look  full  of  star 
tled  surprise,  which  soon  turned  to  anger  and 
disdain.  "Look  hyeah,  Gabe,"  she  said,  wrath- 
fully,  "what's  de  mattah  wid  you?  Is  you  done 
tuk  leab  ob  yo'  senses  ?  Ain't  you  got  no  'spect 
fo'  a  lady's  feelin's?  Heah  I's  tiahed  and  hon- 
gry,  an'  you  come  'roun  talkin'  sich  foolishness 
ez  dat.  No,  I  ain't  gwine  hab  you.  Git  up  f'om 
daih,  an'  ac'  sensible.  I's  hongry,  I  is." 

Gabe  got  up  sheepishly,  dusting  his  knees. 
304 


The  Way  of  a  Woman 

Anna  Maria  turned  to  the  window.  He  took  his 
hat,  and  let  himself  out  of  the  door. 

"Heyo,  Brothah  Gabe,  wha  you  gwine?  You 
ain't  gwine  'way  fo'  suppah,  am  you?  We  got 
som  monstous  fine  middlin'  daih  fryin'  speshly 
fo'  you,"  was  the  greeting  from  Anna  Maria's 
father. 

"D'you  want  to  buy  Suke?  Fs  gwine  'way 
f'om  hyeah." 

"What's  de  mattah'd  you?"  was  the  old  man's 
quick  question. 

"I's  done  filled  all  de  'quirements  you  tol'  me, 
an'  axed  Anna  Maria  'gain,  an'  she  won't  hab 
me,  an'  I's  gwine  'way." 

"No,  y'ain't.     Set  down." 

Gabe  seated  himself  beside  his  adviser. 

"Wen  you  ax  Anna  Maria?" 

"Jes'  now." 

"Oomph,  oomph,  oomph,"  said  the  old  man, 
reflectively;  and  he  went  on:  "Gabe,  fo'  a  ha'd- 
wo'kin,  money-savin',  long-haided  man  you  sholy 
has  got  less  sense  dan  anybody  I  know." 

"What's  I  done  now?"  said  Gabe,  disconso 
lately.  "Ain't  I  filled  all  de  'quirements?  Ain't 
I  satisfied  huh  soul?  Aain't  I  chawmed  huh 
305 


In  Old  Plantation  Days 

yeah?    Ain't  I  pleased  huh  eye?    Now  wha'  mo' 
— oh,  'tain't  no  use!" 

"HoF  on,  hoi'  on,  I  say;  you  done  all  dese 
t'ings.  You's  satisfied  huh  soul,  you's  chawmed 
huh  yeah,  you's  pleased  huh  eye,  an'  she's  jes 
ready  fo'  you,  but  Lawd  a'  massy  'pon  me,  ain't 
you  got  mo'  sense  dan  to  pop  de  question  to  a 
lady  w'en  she  hungry?  Gabe,  you  got  lots  to 
Tarn." 

"  'Tain't  no  use,  Unc'  Ike;  ef  she  eat  suppah 
an'  git  satisfied,  den  she  ain't  gwine  need  me." 

"You  set  down  an'  wait  till  aftah  suppah,  I 
say." 

Just  then  the  call  for  supper  came,  and  Gabe 
went  in  with  the  black  Solomon.  During  the 
blessing  Anna  Maria  was  cold  and  distant,  but 
when  the  first  biscuit  was  passed  to  her  her  face 
brightened.  She  half  smiled  as  she  broke  it  open 
and  filled  its  hot  interior  with  rich  yellow  butter. 
The  smile  was  on  full  force  when  she  had  tasted 
the  brown  crisp  "middlin',"  and  by  the  time  she 
had  the  "jackets"  off  two  steaming  potatoes  her 
face  was  beaming. 

With  wonder  and  joy  Gabe  watched  the  meta 
morphosis  take  place,  and  Uncle  Ike  had  con- 
306 


The  Way  of  a  Woman 

stantly  to  keep  nudging  or  kicking  him  under  the 
table  to  keep  him  from  betraying  himself. 

When  the  supper  was  done,  and  it  went  on  to 
a  merry  ending,  Aunt  Hannah  refused  Anna 
Maria's  help  with  mock  fierceness,  and  Uncle  Ike 
went  out  on  the  porch  to  smoke.  Only  the  front 
room  was  left  for  Anna  Maria  and  Gabe,  and 
thither  they  went. 

Gabe  lingered  for  awhile  on  the  brink,  and 
then  plunged  in:  "Anna  Maria,  I's  failed,  an' 
failed,  an'  I's  waited  an'  waited.  Is  you — is  you 
— will  you  have  me  now?" 

"La,  Gabe  Ha'is,  you  is  de  beatenes' !"  But 
her  hand  slipped  into  his. 

"Is  you  gwine  have  me,  Anna  Maria?"  he  re 
peated. 

"I  reckon  I'll  have  to,"  she  said. 

Out  on  the  porch  Uncle  Ike  waited  long  in  the 
silence;  then  he  said:  "Well,  dat's  a  moughty 
good  sign,  but  it  sholy  time  fu'  it.  Oomph, 
oomph,  oomph,  'oomen  an'  colts,  an'  which  is  de 
wus,  I  don'  know." 


307 


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